


Dog Years

by princemiskeen



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, M/M, Other, idiots to lovers, local reformed street urchin attempts to become one with the hicks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:13:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22809946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princemiskeen/pseuds/princemiskeen
Summary: Taking in the ups, downs, and sideways of the Van der Linde gang in that fateful year of 1899. Told from the perspective of a young, angry gunslinger who doesn't have the interest, desire, or the capacity to play by any of the rules set by Uncle Sam - he instead tries to carve out his own place, and is more than happy to do it by force. Circumstances lead him into the arms of this gaggle of unfortunates, spearheaded by a man that talks like an anarchist but acts like a huckster. From the snow-capped Ambarino mountains to the swamp pits of Lemoyne, Krios has to decide if he'll accept somebody else's definition of freedom or find it for himself.
Relationships: Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	1. In the Bleak Midwinter

**Author's Note:**

> Something I've managed to crank out in the middle of a gnarly depressive episode. I'll try to post full, comprehensive chapters when I'm satisfied with them. Figured I ought to share with anyone still having their fun with this ridiculously detailed game. It was just too easy to fixate on, yanno? Comments, kudos, alla that always appreciated.

The days following Blackwater are a jumbled series of feverish hallucinations and night sweats, cobbled together like a quilt needled by a drunkard. For a good chunk of the trek up into the mountains of Ambarino, he is more of a bystander to what happens to his own body than its owner. The grippe that ravages him makes the very convincing argument his brain is boiling, and the shivers are only made worse by the downright demonic cold the gang rides right into. It seems Blackwater's failure is another nail in their proverbial coffin.

He doesn't know where he is, who's with him, or which wagon he's even in. All he knows is that it's somebody's lap that serves as his sickbed, and they bounce around in the back.

A soft voice tries to keep him from slipping into oblivion despite his best efforts to the contrary. “Mr. Devereux, honey, can you hear me?”

“Mm …” It comes out like an animalistic grunt. “Wh- … What?”

She's all bundled up, but he recognizes Mary-Beth's kind eyes and her pretty, freckled face looking down at his plagued self. “Oh, poor thing. This fever ain't been nice to you, has it? You been sleepin' for almost two days straight.”

“Give him some water.”

The caravan docks in a place – Colter. Any conversation he might be capable of is erased by the aching of every single muscle in his body, the fog in his head. Dehydration and weakness keep him from staying in the present moment, and he fades in and out until the wagon comes to a complete stop.

When he does feel movement again, it isn't of his own volition. As a precaution not to get Jack and the others sick, Grimshaw decides to keep him wherever it is they're keeping Dutch and Arthur. He doesn't have the energy to contest any of this decision-making, and gets lugged out of the wagon and into the snowstorm's grip like a sack of maize. The talking and dictating all around sounds like it's being spoken in another language.

It's the sheer, raw _cold_ that jolts him to a greater state of consciousness, and as he's lifted into someone's arms he tries to remember how to speak to other human beings again.

“I can take him, Dutch,” Arthur's voice calls out in the howling wind.

“No, I'll be alright,” and he recognizes Dutch's voice, opens his eyes in the storm to find the man's face and distinctive, dark mustache staring back at him. “Young Krios here's light as a feather. Let's get you by a fire, see if we can't sweat this fever outta you.”

“Dutch,” he manages, though it comes out like a groan. “M'sorry.”

Dutch raises an eyebrow, begins hauling him away. “You ain't got nothin' to be sorry for, son. Only thing you need to be doin' right now is seein' out this storm with us.”

“You sure … I'm not already dead?” he asks him, and it's a genuine question.

Dutch chuckles, and he listens to the sound of boots sloshing into the snow as they make their way across makeshift camp. “You're alive, my boy. I know it don't feel like it, but you are.”

“It'll be alright, son,” says Hosea, walking beside Dutch and the feverish bundle of bones in his arms. “Us sickly bastards'll keep each other company while we wait for some thaw.”

“Mr. Devereux will be fine,” Dutch declares, and Krios wonders if it's a statement or an order as they step through the threshold into the rickety old cabin. “You ain't got a bullet in you, just a fever. It won't be your end.”

Krios can't help the scoffing sound. “You a psychic now, too?”

Hosea scoffs. “He certainly thinks he is.”

“It'd sure make our lives easier,” Dutch replies with another laugh.

The fireplace is stoked and he's lowered down onto a makeshift set up of blankets and extra cloth, practically cocooned into it. The warmth from the fire is an immediate godsend and he sighs against the relief it brings, his eyelids growing heavier with each passing moment.

Once the patient is settled, Dutch moves to go about the rest of the unimaginable business of trying to orient himself and the rest of the gang in these mountains, as well as to get Davey buried. Before he leaves, and as Hosea pulls a chair to sit beside Krios, he tells him, “Get some rest, now. Try not to let this old man talk you into an early grave.”

Krios turns his head. “Thank you, Dutch.”

“Just rest. Plenty of ways for you to thank me, but I'll need you strong.”

“Just … gimme … a day,” Krios mutters, starting to curl round the blankets into the fetal position. Even if he's slept for two days, he feels he could easily sleep for two more. “You point, I shoot.”

Krios can hear the pride in Dutch's voice when he says, “That's exactly the attitude I need. Keep it up.”

The door closes behind their leader as he leaves, and it's just Krios and Hosea staring into the dusty hearth. Two sick, shivering souls hiding out from perhaps the most monstrous storm the month of May has seen. A film of cold sweat clings to him like a second skin.

Hosea watches him with no small amount of concern knit into his wizened face. “You should be drinkin' a lot more water than you are, kid.”

“I've been half-dead for two days, H,” he replies. “You really want me to piss myself, too?”

The old man snorts, rubs his hands together over the fire. “Gotta get this sickness outta you _somehow_.”

“M'surprised the trek up here didn't kill me.”

“People get sick sometimes, son,” Hosea replies, pausing to hack a dry cough into his sleeve. “Listen to me. They'll bury me before they do you.”

“Dunno about you,” Krios mutters, “but I'm not gearing up to meet the ferryman in the asshole of Ambarino. I may be a trigger happy reprobate, but I … _sure as shit_ am not croaking on this mountain.”

Hosea hums, lights a cigarette from his britches. A rather shameless thing to do with the state of his lungs, but the way he talks makes it seem like he's fucked, regardless. He leans down and places his canteen beside where Krios' is laying his head. “You got nothin' to worry about, then. Just try and sleep this off, hm? And drink some damn water before I get Swanson in here with that morphine.”

Krios grunts, drags himself to a sitting position to do as he's bid and take a swig of the water offered. At the mention of morphine he feels his veins tighten in no small amount of anxiety. “Right, because it's been so helpful for him.”

Hosea keeps his eyes on the hearth as he says, “It's an evil world out there, kid. Every man's got his vices … and when ya got nothin' left, those vices can be all we have.”

His feelings on the good Reverend are a combination of pity and irritation, and he wouldn't understand the man's presence in camp if not for the nebulous story of his saving Dutch's life. Though, for the life of him, Krios can't even begin to fathom the sort of circumstances that would've kept Swanson along for _this_ long.

Krios sucks his teeth, tries to wipe away some of the sweat beading on his upper lip. “I met a lotta junkies. They're everywhere in New York. That Swanson just … never shuts the fuck up, does he? Always sings the same song when he's soaked, always drags himself around.”

At that, Hosea laughs again. “He doesn't. But he means well … just lost his way, like the rest of us.”

“You softer than you let on, H.”

“I'm old,” he counters instead. “If you're smart, and I think you just might be, you'll get to be my age. And you'll either be too tired or too shaken up by the world to judge them that're just tryin' to cope with being alive on this cursed rock.”

It's a comforting thing to hear for Krios' own reasons, but it's also indicative of the type of man Hosea is. While he tends to exist as Dutch's foil, they have a shared belief in the common man that he cannot help but admire on most days. And while it meant sharing camp with some stone-cold bastards, it also meant sharing with folks just trying to survive. The trick is deciding who's who.

An idea he can sympathize with.

* * *

Krios doesn't dream. Only floats in oblivion again for as many hours as his addled mind can cling to it. He doesn't know at which point he falls asleep during Hosea's philosophical seminar, but it takes him swift. Something about the droning of men works better than any morphine Swanson could siphon into his veins.

The next morning, the same droning of men is what rouses him from his void. Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur sit beside each other in view of the fireplace and muse on their situation, and Hosea's own coughing is an indicator that they needed to get off the mountain fast if he intends to live to see an actual spring day.

Krios wakes light-headed and woozy, but lacking the distinct weight of the fever and he counts his blessings, however small in this hellish tundra they find themselves trapped in. Smoothing hands over his face, he wakes up to find the triumvirate of the gang's brains staring at him.

“How you feelin' this morning, son?” Dutch asks Krios.

Krios runs fingers through his disheveled hair, tries to bring himself into a semblance of reality again. Still too damn cold. “Alive …. I think.”

A low sound rumbles in Arthur's chest and he crouches down to one knee, rests the back of his hand on Krios' forehead to check for a persistent fever. “Looks like that nasty fever broke in the night. Survived by the skin of yer teeth, huh, Devereux?”

He scoffs. “S'usually how it goes.”

“Found ourselves an O'Driscoll last night, as well as another poor soul, turns out they're the only other bastards foolish enough to be out in this storm,” Dutch tells him. “We'll be payin' them a visit shortly.”

“Shit,” Krios grunts, attempting to balance his weight on one arm as he pushes himself to stand to his feet. “Let's go get those Paddy fucks–!”

As soon as he's upright, his legs give out like a poorly built stack of cards. The blood rushes to his head and it's any wonder his skull doesn't slam right back down onto the hardwood floor. Arthur catches him before he crumbles to the ground and the men all laugh, and he says in Krios' ear, “Easy does it, killer.”

Rather gently, Arthur eases him back down.

“You got balls of steel, city boy, I'll give you that,” Dutch wags his finger at him with a proud smile plastered on his face. He nurses a cigar as he takes in the sorry sight of a young man's pride overruling his common sense. “Barely functional and still itchin' to shoot some O'Driscolls. A young man after my own heart.”

Hosea eyeballs him. “Seems your brain and your body aren't agreein' with each other, kid. Best leave the shootin' for another day.”

“I'll be fine,” says Krios, hacking up a cough to underscore that he is not fine. His stomach rattles against its own emptiness. “I just … need to eat somethin', and I'll be fine.”

Arthur snorts beside him as he stands back up to his feet. “It'll probably take a little more than that.”

“And what're you, the first gun-slinging doctor?” Krios snaps.

Arthur laughs at him, cocking his hips as he leans on his gun belt. “I don't even need to be one to see that you're still half-dead, Devereux. You ain't no use to anybody like this – though I'm _sure_ you can use this to get even more sympathy out the women.”

The men start to laugh and Dutch remarks with that look that middle-aged men get on their faces when they talk about young women, “I believe this sly bastard spent most of the trip up here nestled like Paris of Troy in Miss Gaskill's lap.”

“Oh, they keep askin' after _poor_ , unfortunate Mr. Devereux,” Arthur jeers. “Hell, you ain't even been shot. Some damn sniffles and everybody's in a frenzy.”

Krios sucks his teeth, makes a show of looking the man up and down like the shit beneath his boots. “Bite my ass, Morgan. I'd be a better shot than you blind from the French pox.”

Dutch throws his head back in a raucous laugh, likely eager for some distraction from their circumstances for even a half of a second. “You _tell_ 'im, son.”

“Ha!” Arthur makes an incredulous noise, his eyebrows shooting up with the indignation. “That fever broke but I see you still ain't been cured of that nasty tongue, city boy. You wanna go out there and get yerself shot? Be my guest.”

“Ain't nobody else getting shot,” Hosea interjects, then. “Arthur, go make yourself useful and find everybody some food. Krios, rein it in. You won't get any better running your mouth.”

Krios mutters under his breath as he tries to stand to his feet again, this time much slower, “Sure makes me feel better.”

“Come find me when you can stand up straight, we'll see whose the better shot,” Arthur sneers at him as he turns on his heel and makes his way to complete the task that's been bid him. As he goes and the door slams behind him, he hears Arthur call him a, “Foul-mouthed little shit.”

He does get upright, leaned up against the wall for support – and once his head stops spinning it helps with his strength. Dutch points a finger at Krios when he says, “Pay it no mind, Krios. Arthur just hates being reminded of what he was like in his 20s.”

An uncomfortable image, to be sure. “Oh, Christ, Dutch. Would you stoop so low to slander the sick?”

Dutch laughs again and he replies, “You young bucks can learn a thing or two from him, sour as his disposition may be.”

Krios' eyes all but roll into the back of his head as he replies, “What am I learning from him, exactly? How to scratch my balls in public?”

Dutch snorts as he stands to his feet, slapping a hand down on Krios' shoulder. “Oh, city boy, you do make me laugh.”

“I been out west since I was 18, Dutch,” Krios feels the need to remind him, as city boy shifts from an insult to a form of endearment with the phases of the moon with these people. “I feel like I shoulda graduated from city boy by now.”

And it's Hosea that tells him, “Can't graduate from what you are, son.”

* * *

When food is finally caught and cooked, Krios has the energy to deal with some of the others in camp other than Hosea. As much as he's come to respect him, his disgruntled mood and his death wish aren't exactly the best company to have in an effort to shake his own sickness. So he bundles himself up as much as he can and shambles his way over to the shack where the women, Swanson, and a half-eaten John Marston wait out the thaw. Beside them is another woman, the one found with those O'Driscolls. Her name escapes him but the look in her eyes already starts to haunt him.

He pokes his head through the threshold and he's greeted with at least three different voices simultaneously, but it's Susan's that rings through for his brain to process. “My, but aren't you lookin' better this evening, Mr. Devereux? Got a little life back in your face.”

“I'm alive,” he agrees. “Just barely.”

Susan puts an arm around him and leads him over to a rickety old chair in front of the hearth beside Mary-Beth and Karen, “You just sit here and keep yourself warm. Don't want that fever comin' back.”

Krios leans back in his seat, rubs his hands together over the fire before he asks no one in particular, “I … guess Davey didn't make it, huh?”

“No,” Abigail replies from her position at John's bedside. Wrapped up like a leper, he sleeps soundly and oblivious to the goings-on. “You was one of the luckier ones, Mr. Devereux.”

He sniffs. There's no real love lost with that pair of vicious fuckers but a shot to the gut is an ugly way to go, and Mac was a damn skilled poker player to witness. Still, for the sake of the fact that he died less than a day ago, Krios says to them, “I see. Damn shame.”

“How you feelin', though?” Karen asks him with a reassuring and genuine squeeze of his thigh, passes him the cigarette she's been nursing between her fingers. “Last time I seen you, you looked about halfway there yourself.”

Krios nods his thanks and takes a grateful drag before he replies, “I seen glimpses of the ferryman a couple times. I'll probably see him a couple more times, way things is going.”

At that, Karen snorts. “Fair enough.”

“Can we _try_ and keep the conversation light?” Susan demands to the room, but mostly to the two of them. “All this death talk is makin' me lose my mind.”

He nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels a tug on his jacket, and looks into Jack's bright eyes. The chatty little cherub himself. Something about kids and their manner stare straight through to the soul. “What did you mean about a ferryman? Who's the ferryman?”

“Jack!” Abigail cries. “Leave Mr. Devereux be.”

Krios waves it away with a gesture and assures her that it's alright, grabs the kid and plops him on his lap in front of the fire. “Well, kid. There's the world of the living, where we live right now, and then there's the underworld – and when somebody passes on, they gotta cross a river to get there. The ferryman's job is to get you there.”

“What river?” Jack probes.

“The river Styx,” Krios replies, unable to suppress the smile at the natural thirst for new stories that lives in every kid he's ever met. “It's the passage for souls to get to the underworld. They'd get lost otherwise.”

The kid nods, the little gears turning in his head. “Which is why you need the ferryman.”

Krios musses the hair on his head. How a moron like John Marston was capable of bringing such a curious kid into this world is one of its many, many great mysteries. “Exactly, kid. His name's Charon.”

“You talk like you been there yourself, Mr. Devereux,” Mary-Beth muses in the background, never one to shy away from all the fancy of human storytelling. She's always an eager ear for the stories passed down to him.

Krios shrugs, idly bounces the kid on his lap. “I'll see him when the time comes. Hope I remember to have the money to pay 'im.”

“You shouldn't be filling the boy's head with pagan fairy tales, Mr. Devereux,” Swanson pipes up, which spends a jolt of irritation right up Krios' spine.

“Fairy tales?” he repeats, turning round to look the would-be man of God right in the lazy eye. In moments like these Krios wonders why he asks to not be called a city boy, as his accent shines through and through. “Let me tell you somethin', Reverend. When my people were inventing philosophy, yours were still swinging from trees. These stories are older than your entire, cursed family tree, you got that?”

A low laugh rumbles through the room.

“We could debate on the validity of those statements for hours, Mr. Devereux,” Swanson remarks, notably huffy and oh-so-sensitive to the idea that he's being mocked. Preacher types are too easy of a target, to say nothing of the ones that try to find Christ at the bottom of a bottle.

“Yeah?” Krios fires back. “And you'd lose in a pile of tears and snot, preacher. Shut up and leave the sermons for Sunday.”


	2. One Devil to Another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two broooos ~ shootin' some O'Driscolls ~ five feet apart 'cause they're not gay ~
> 
> What's better than this? Just guys bein' dudes. In which Krios has some bro-tivational bonding time, and gets closer in touch with the horse girl that lives inside of us all, with the help of an unexpected source. As always, thank you so much for reading along. The action'll pick up, as will the smoochin'.

A decent enough chunk of Krios' strength returns by the third consecutive day in the mountains, despite all circumstances suggesting the opposite would happen. The cold seeps through his clothes and into his bones, but he finds he likes it better than a Pinkerton bullet between the eyes, so he doesn't complain about it much.

Still, by that third day he's so antsy he feels he'll lose his mind long before the government comes along to hang him for it. The snow falls more gentle this time. He resolves to make himself useful, at least going beyond his role as a sickly sack of meat waiting to die.

So he makes his way up to Charles and his healing hand that morning, asks him outright, “Hey, uh, can I borrow Taima?”

Charles is one of the only murdering sons of bitches in this gang that he trusts almost outright. There's something to be said for gut feelings, and his gut is solid about him. “You sure you got the strength for that?”

Krios dismisses the man's justifiable concern with a wave of his hand, goes on to say, “I'm fit as a fiddle, Charlie. 'Sides, she's a tough filly. Needs to stretch her legs. And you _know_ I had to put my last one down.”

A tragedy for all involved.

Charles eyeballs him, considers it. “Fine, but don't go alone. There's O'Driscolls out there.”

Krios snorts with all the misplaced arrogance of the recently sick, sticks his arms out with the indignation he felt at such a warning. “You think I can't handle some fuckin' Micks?”

He exhales and he replies, “Quit moanin', take someone with you, and try and find some food – don't just dick around in the snow.”

When it comes to Charlie, there's no real use arguing. He crosses his arms and it's like negotiating with stone. “Ugh. Fine.” So he gives up fighting it, sucks his teeth and surveys who's upright and not too hungover to just be dead weight.

Krios is not annoyed that he sees Javier standing outside the cabin where the juniors linger, whistles once. “Javier! You busy?”

“Nah,” he replies back, smoking by the fire. “What's up?”

“Needa get some air,” he glances back at Charles with a raised eyebrow before marching over to Javier, “and find some food, I guess. Charlie here's afraid of them paddies and I can't go alone, wanna come?”

Javier tosses the cig into the flames and brandishes his newly polished rifle. “Say no more.”

Even Krios is unsure if he's being sincere or mocking him when, as he walks past Charles to get to the saddled Taima, he tips his hat to him, but he says, “Appreciate you as always, Charles. I see an O'Driscoll, I'll shoot him in your honor.”

Charles purses his lips, unimpressed as always with Krios' bluster, as he pats Taima's long, patchwork neck. “M'hm. Stay alert.”

Once Javier's atop Boaz, they ride off into the snow. It's a roll of the dice with the men in this camp as to who he'd consider a friend, but he respects Javier and he's never met a funnier bastard in his life. He's also never met a more vicious one, but listening to even one fourth of his tale of woe puts those pieces together for Krios quickly enough.

The sun stretches high, the sky a startling shade of blue through the gaps in the clouds, and the wind tickles their faces til they go red in the nose. Krios gives Javier the once over, sees him dealing with this cold in only a thick poncho and he says, “ _How_ are you not freezin' your balls off, man?”

“Oh, I am,” he replies, laughing in that way that tells Krios the poor fuck is trying to just get used to the pain at this point. “I ain't exactly prepared for this kinda weather.”

“I bet not,” says Krios. He's never been to Mexico but the stories coming out of there are nothing short of horrifying. “It's gotta be better than being trapped in that fuckin' shack with _the_ most foul-smelling white bastards in the land, though.”

Javier exhales sharp, rubbing his hands over his face. “ _Mierda_ , don't get me started on those filthy fucks. I'd prefer sleepin' in a stable.”

Krios starts laughing so hard he clutches his gut with one hand, shaking his head as he cries, “Look, I swear, I'd be right there suffering through those meat farts with ya, but I was a big ball of sick up until just recently.”

“Don't sweat it,” he replies. “I saw you when we left for Blackwater … I thought you mighta died on the way up. But you a stubborn bastard, huh, Devereux? Kept yourself alive anyway.”

The response to that is a wide, shark-toothed grin. “The one and only.”

“We coulda used you in yesterday's fight with them O'Driscolls,” he says, then. “Dutch found some plans on 'em, though. They weren't up here for no reason. And Arthur caught some squirmy little O'Driscoll to get information out of, too – not sure when, but I think we might hit a train soon.”

Krios nods along as Javier explains what they found in more depth. Still, he can't help but snort at the prospect of hitting a train in the year of our Lord 1899. “A train, huh? Looks like ol' Dutch is tryin' to save some face after Blackwater.”

“It was … it was some bad business, I won't lie,” Javier says. The uncertainty is there on his face, but Krios can tell he wouldn't be in the sharing mood on this subject for a long time, if ever. “But he got us out of there. Now we gotta just keep our heads down and see if we can ride this out, go get lost somewhere nobody can find us.”

Krios all but slaps Javier with the withering stare and he says, “So keepin' our heads down means hittin' a train?”

Javier frowns. “We need money, fool.”

Krios puts his hands up, palms forward as he says, “C'mon, Javi. It's a lot of noise to make so soon after the fact, is all. You know I'm right!”

“So, what, you ain't gonna do it?”

He scoffs. “What? 'Course I'm gonna do it.”

“Good,” he replies. “John's nearly dead and all bitten up, so he won't be any use. Any decent gun'll make a world of difference.”

They stop when they both catch the sound of idle chatter, and Krios presses his index finger to his mouth as the two of them shimmy off of their horses and proceed, low and slow, closer. He's happy with himself for making sure to bring one of his favorite rifles along for the ride. The snow muffles their footsteps until they come upon a decent vantage point, and gloriously, they have the higher ground. It's just two men clad in leathers and dirty clothes standing around with their horses, examining what looks like animal shit in the snow.

“O'Driscoll boys,” Javier murmurs. “Gotta be. No one else is crazy enough to be on this mountain.”

Krios surveys the men through the scope on his rifle. O'Driscolls alright, they can all but smell them. “Thought you and the boys killed the ones up here.”

He sucks his teeth. “Not all of 'em.”

“I see, well, I'm a man of my word,” says Krios. He takes a breath, holds it, and aims the rifle until one of their heads is in view in the scope. “Any objections, Mr. Escuella?”

Javier sniffs. “Do it.”

The round sounds off, bounces off the treetops and through the mountains before it's garnished by the distinct sound of a man's screaming like a stuck pig. Their horses scatter immediately. The one beside him flops to the ground, the bullet flying right through his eyeball. The surviving O'Driscoll _leaps_ to his attempt at cover, searching in desperation for the murderer.

“Nice shot,” Javier whistles beside him.

Krios puts the rifle over his shoulder, throws the man a jaunty and bone-chillingly pleasant wave when the O'Driscoll's eyes fall on the pair of them on high before hollering out, “You Micks oughta be more careful! All _sorts_ on this mountain.”

“You … you sick _bastard_!” the man roars in that distinctive brogue that reassures Krios he didn't just shoot some Joe schmoe, squinting with the sun in his eyes. “You shot my cousin!”

Javier and Krios exchange amused glances. “And I'll shoot you next if ya don't fuck off,” Krios cries, cocking the hammer in his direction again. “Scram! Before my Christlike mercy wears thin.”

Lucky for the O'Driscoll, he doesn't have a death wish, and does indeed fuck off as fast as his little legs can carry him away, but not before he manages to call out, “You'll see me again, ya goddamn darkie! I'll take what's owed me!”

Krios fires a warning shot to the right of the fleeing figure, careful to hit the ground, and the man jumps and sprints all the faster. They share a laugh and Krios cries out, “Run, sheep fucker, _run_!”

Javier and Krios descend the hill when the coast is clear. A scenic spot near Lake Isabella. Javier goes about looting the O'Driscoll stiff with the missing eyeball and Krios keeps his eyes on the horizon and the treeline, as it would be embarrassing to get bushwhacked after they themselves just did the bushwhacking.

Movement in the distance stops him again, and he whistles to Javier to stay sharp. With the scope, he tries to sift through the snow as the wind whips it around their faces. What he finds through the veil shrivels the breath in his throat, stomping around with no regard for what might be watching.

The disbelief washes over him and he looks through the scope again before he hands it to Javier and asks him, “Am I seein' things or is that a horse?”

Javier yanks the rifle away, looks through the scope. “Shit … I think so.”

“You got like … a carrot or somethin'?” Krios asks him, already fishing in his own satchel for the rope that he keeps. Ever since learning how to lasso, he's been eager to do it every chance he can get.

Without a word, Javier hands him a shiny apple. Krios opens his mouth to ask where the hell he got that but he's ahead of him and says, “It was on that dead O'Driscoll.”

“Oh,” Krios murmurs in surprise when his hands close round the apple and he shifts his attention to this new development. “How kind of our dearly departed pal.”

They move closer on the horse's position. Krios is finally able to see her and he's struck dumb with how the sun catches her coat, snowy and easy camouflage. The original intention was to find out where those scattered O'Driscoll horses got off to, but this is a better option. If the attempt doesn't kill him.

The rope between his hands digs into his palms, the two of them crouched behind a tree as they watch her. “It's a goddamn Yeti. You keep watch, I'm gonna see if she's up for a dance.”

“Careful,” Javier warns him. “Ain't nothin' meaner than a wild horse.”

Krios brandishes the lasso and starts, slow and steady, moving toward the mountain filly. For whatever reason, his mind's eye conjures the image of his great aunt Maria. “I can think of a few things.”

There's a coloring of gray around her mouth and hooves but she's a snow white dame, alright, and Krios' approach is as careful as he's ever been, one step after another, entirely enamored.

When she inevitably sees him crouched in the snow like a poor attempt at a cougar, she starts to stomp her hooves and snort out a warning. Krios straightens up, palms forward in an attempt to mean no harm, trying his best to calm her with _whoa_ and _easy there_. He tries to keep the lasso out of her sight until the very exact moment it's needed.

The chattering in Greek just slips out of him. Feels more natural, somehow, to try and court this beast like Xenophon himself might've, though he wonders if it just makes him look more like a fool to his captive audience.

“ _Chalaróste_ , gorgeous,” he tells her. _Relax_.

The white dame snorts loud and haughty again when he's close, and it's the exact moment he needs to whip the lasso from behind his back, throw it over his head and around her long, elegant neck. And he _pulls_ with all his strength when she rears and tries to kick at him. Krios tries very hard not to get hooves to the face, inching closer and closer to her so he could crawl up onto her back.

Javier watches with silent amusement as this charade goes on. And when Krios finally scrambles onto her back, she uses every ounce of her strength to try and buck him off again. And for his credit, he gives a good effort, squeezing with his thighs to get her to calm the hell down, trying to soothe a hand over the side of her neck – but the dame has other designs, and is clearly much smarter than Krios.

She bucks once, twice, three times and it sends Krios flying into the snow, unceremoniously eating shit with a prompt _oof_. The snow cushions his fall but not his wounded pride, and he takes a moment to roll onto his back and cuss under his breath. Javier's cackling could be heard for at least a hundred yards.

In between the laughs, he calls out, “You handled that well, I think.”

Krios opens his mouth to try and save face – also to tell Javier to shut the hell up – but the filly surprises him by not bolting, making her way over to the felled young person and moving her nose over him in examination of him and his audacity. It tickles and terrifies him all at once, because one false move and his lights are getting stomped out. To have a face full of horse is to court death in a deeply uncanny sort of way.

It dawns on him what she wants. He fishes in his pocket for that O'Driscoll-found apple and presents it to her. The horse brings her hulking snout over the apple, gives it a sniff, and inhales it in one go. Krios laughs, breathless still from the fall as she seems to let him pat her head. “Tryin' to schmooze me after you nearly killed me, huh?”

“You good over there, Krios?” Javier cries from his position a safe distance from the commotion. “I'd come check myself but I do _not_ trust that this horse won't try 'n kill me, too.”

“You're probably right,” he replies. “Stay put, lemme handle this.”

Whatever motivates the change in attitude, he coos to her in Greek again and tries to stand back up to his feet again. He calls her beautiful, calls her strong, calls her a vicious demon from the depths of the underworld – but she responds to him, seems to search him for more apples before knocking his hat clean off his head.

Javier chuckles in the background. “Careful, now. She still might kick you in the head.”

“She sure might,” says Krios as he pats himself dry of the snow, staring into the dark pits of this horse's eyes. A moment passes and she makes a low noise in the base of her throat, nudges her nose into Krios' face. “Lady after my own heart.”

“I don't know much about horses,” Javier muses when it looks safe enough to make an approach, “but she looks she could fetch a high price.”

Krios balks. “And hand this jewel of the mountain over to some mouth-breathing hick?”

Javier cocks an eyebrow. “She been nice to you for two whole minutes, Krios. Think you might be countin' your chickens? Horse like this could fetch you a grand, at least.”

At this point, he's barely listening. The horse is so pretty and he's running on a high. “Don't listen to the bad man, angel,” he coos, scratching behind her ears as they prick to and fro before trying to hoist himself on her back again. “You 'n me are gonna be pals, and I'll get you a whole orchard fulla apples.”

The horse is jumpy all over again, but she doesn't buck him, so that's an improvement on ten minutes ago. Javier still rolls his eyes at the pair of them before whistling over Boaz and Taima, deigning to remind Krios, “We still gotta find some food. Reckon you wouldn't be up to eating your new _pal_.”

“Very funny.”

* * *

Almost immediately, the horse is ornery with the other mounts in Colter, even tries to bite at one of the gentler mares. Krios spends an inordinate amount of time with her that evening once he volunteers to give Charles a break, smoothing a horse brush over her lush coat, chattering to her in Greek as they build their own private correspondence. He brings her over to a more isolated position so she doesn't bully the others.

“Hey, mister,” a voice calls out to him. “Where'd you get that filly?”

The O'Driscoll that got caught is tied up to a wooden post, watches the two of them with bleary curiosity. Krios' eyes narrow. “What's it to you, O'Driscoll?”

“I already told some of the others,” he insists. There's a tinge of the pathetic about him that only comes from being deliberately starved. His eyes are sunken in, his movements are twitchy at best. “I _ain't_ an O'Driscoll, alright? I just … she's mighty pretty, mister, that's all.”

“What, you good with horses?”

“Good enough.”

Krios cracks a muscle in his neck, gives the man and his sullen, sunken face a once over. “Yeah? Alright, hayseed. Tell me what you see.”

“W – Well,” the O'Driscoll stammers in surprise, “it's clear she's from Arabian stock … like the kinda horse rich fellers pay top dollar for. She's … strong and fulla fire, probably _real_ fast, too, I can see that from the muscles in her legs. Breakin' her is gonna be a hard task but once you do, and you treat her like you been doin', she'll be all yours. I know it.”

Krios can't get his angle. He wonders if the man even has one beyond surviving to the next day, judging by the tremor in his voice. “I found her up near Lake Isabella this very afternoon, wild as the day is long,” he decides to tell the O'Driscoll. “Bucked me off and nearly killed me, but we've come to an understanding, huh, _yp_ _é_ _rochos_?”

The horse nickers and butts her head with Krios' and he smiles, smoothing the brush down her neck.

The O'Driscoll blinks. “Then … you got real lucky, mister. Ain't never seen no nag as pretty that wasn't stolen or rustled from somebody with money.”

“Name's Krios,” he says. “You don't gotta call me mister.”

“Kieran,” he replies back. “Do … do the horse have a name yet?”

Krios grins, then. “Oh, she's got a name. The Yeti.”

Kieran blinks, tilts his head. “Is that a name in whatever language you was speakin' to her?”

And he laughs. “No. The Yeti's a legend from Asia. A hulking, spooky bastard of a beast on two legs that lurks in snow-capped mountains … a lot like how I found her. Seemed appropriate.”

“I ain't a very learned man, you'll have to forgive me,” Kieran says, doesn't hide the shame that crosses his face. “I, uh … I reckon this is the first civil conversation I had since I got here, really.”

Krios hears the sincerity coming back at him.“You got nothin' to fear from me,” he says, and he watches Kieran's shoulders slump with a small bit of relief. “I can't say I can do much for your situation. You in some shit, friend, I won't lie. And some of these fuckers would like nothin' more than a whipping boy.”

Kieran's face is a perfect picture of desolate despair. “I know.”

Krios sniffs, doesn't bother much to see who's listening. He has no real shame for refusing to kick a man when he's tied to a post. “My suggestion, if you wanna survive this? When the time comes, just tell 'em what they want to know. If you aren't an O'Driscoll, as you say, don't die for 'em.”

And the young man heaves a heavy sigh before he replies, “It ain't that simple, Krios.”

“What's not simple?”

The both of them turn their heads to see Arthur standing just beyond, his hands resting on his hips as he attempts to makes sense of what he's been listening to. Krios knows better than to seem like he's guilty of something, but he doesn't like how Arthur's looking at him. The bottle of whiskey in his hand doesn't help matters.

When Krios says nothing, merely stares blank at him, Arthur asks, “How does this fool know your name, city boy?”

“How d'ya think, hick?” says Krios.

“Weren't very smart.”

Krios shrugs, begins moving the Yeti over so she can try and get some sleep without bullying the others. “You've got 'im tied up, I don't see how he can do much harm now. 'Sides, this ain't my feud. The fuck you want me to do, stab him once an hour on the hour?”

Arthur laughs, points to Krios when he addresses Kieran and says, “Don't you get fooled by this trussed up pretty boy, O'Driscoll. Way Javier tells the story, this cold-blooded bastard shot one of your friends right through the eye this afternoon from 100 yards. Talkin' about how it _ain't your feud_.”

“Way I see it,” Kieran pipes up despite how viscerally and visibly frightened he is of Arthur, “they woulda done the same … if they seen him first. Worse, probably.”

Krios blinks, doesn't expect that response, and is already very impatient for whatever drunken power trip Arthur's on to end. He steps in Arthur's way, never one to be intimidated by the height and width of a man that uses that to his advantage, and yanks the bottle of whiskey from his hand with ease.

“I'll be taking this as a _fine_ donation to me keepin' your horses and your hostage alive,” says Krios, turning him around and shoving him away. “Go be a drunken fuck someplace else, will ya? Tryin' for some peace if I'm gonna be stuck out here.”

Arthur scowls, crosses his arms. “Ain't your mama ever washed that mouth out with soap, Devereux?”

“What the fuck do you know about soap, ya rancid bastard?” he barks back, gearing up to land a kick to his ass if he didn't fuck off. “Go annoy somebody else, hayseed.”

Krios turns on his heel and doesn't even give Arthur the opportunity for much of a rebuttal, returning to the Yeti with this new offering in his hand that he takes a hearty swig of. Naturally, it tastes like crude oil and goes down burning, but it's a bit of warmth in his belly that he otherwise had been missing trapped up in Colter.

“You … handle yourself well with these fellers,” Kieran says when the coast is apparently clear. “Did – did you really …?”

“Yeah,” he replies, seeing no need to lie about it. “These boys don't keep me around for my sparklin' conversation, friend.”

Kieran nods once, tries to swallow the lump forming in his throat. “Well, I ain't exactly in a position to be picky about the kindness shown to me. Long as … long as you don't shoot me, we should be square, I think.”


	3. If Virtues Were Horses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which our young shootist occupies himself with his demon horse and his head full of hot air and stories.

Krios would rise with the chickens, if the weather permitted it. The Yeti and her untimely arrival give him a new lease on things, give him a purpose to wake up in the morning beyond just to look over his shoulder for a bowler hat and a shotgun. So he wakes before anyone, grabs a loose carrot from Pearson's stash, and finds her puffing her chest at one of the stallions. They don't have apples beyond that dead O'Driscoll, so he does his best.

He whistles for her, dangles the carrot in her face so she clops right over to bump his head with a hello to accept the bribe. “ _Kaliméra_ , you gorgeous beast.”

As yet, he hasn't been able to get her still enough to saddle her. She seems to _vibrate_ with the energy trapped inside, and their circumstances prevent him from taking her on a proper ride to expel it. Slowly, steady, he leads her to more open space. The weather seems to permit a cantor, and while riding bareback is a mine pick on his crotch, needs must.

Once she's accepted the carrot-shaped bribe, he hops over the side of her for a proper mount. Krios shushes her fussing, squeezes her with his thighs when he feels her urge to buck, and starts prompting her in easy-going circles. They ride like that for a few minutes, barely above a trot, just getting used to each other.

“That's good, girl,” he tells the Yeti. “Let's see if we can't pick things up.”

Krios' attempt to graduate from a cantor to a gallop is promptly ignored, and without warning the Yeti rears and takes off in a _bolt_ in a random direction so fast and so aggressively that even his attempt to desperately hang on by her mane is futile. Krios is able to hold on for all of 15 seconds before the speed overcomes him and he flies off of her back, and earns himself a face full of snow.

He lies there in defeat for a moment, sputtering as he tries to wipe the snow from his face and collect himself and his racing heart. It becomes clearer every day that this would be a work in progress.

Krios has no time to be grateful for the lack of audience before a voice cries out into the early morning, “Mr. Devereux! You alright out there?”

Krios shoots to an upright position, sees Abigail watching the two of them with no small amount of concern on her face, a mug of coffee steaming between her fingers. He throws an awkward wave her way as he says, “You're up early, Miss Roberts.”

Abigail intimidates and impresses him every other moment they cross paths. Pretty as a picture, tough as leather, and a good-hearted woman in love with a moron that doesn't deserve her. He's seen too many women just like her in these exact circumstances.

“The boy's asleep … this is the only time of day I can get some peace and quiet,” she tells him. “Anyway, what're you up to? You've only just gotten a bit better, ya shouldn't tempt fate.”

The Yeti makes her way over to Krios once he's back on his feet and swept himself of the snow caked on his coat, entirely unashamed of herself as she nudges him for more food. Krios laughs under his breath, pats behind her ears before he turns his head to reply, “I need to see to this horse, miss.”

“You won't do her – or the rest of us, for that matter – much good if that fever comes back,” she retorts, and he's reminded of the fact that she's a mother and this comes with the territory. “C'mere. Let me give you some coffee, at least.”

He tries his best to politely decline. “You really don't have to–!”

The tone she takes with him shuts him up. “Quit bein' an idiot. You tie that demon up and take a break, for your own health.” One look at her face tells him that this isn't up for debate. “You keep this up and you'll catch your death _again_ , and you won't be so lucky this time. And I ain't in the mood to bury another one of you fools!”

So Krios smooths his hands over his face, stifling the urge to laugh or be met with the consequences. Though he does say, “Shit. Yes, ma'am.”

A contented smile graces her pretty face as he leads the Yeti back over to a post to hitch. He hands her his own mug, and she pours him some coffee from the batch sitting in the pot beside Pearson's station and they stand there in serene silence. The coffee tastes like shit but it's still coffee.

In between sips, Abigail says, “You should be more careful with your health, Mr. Devereux. With this life, sometimes that's all any of us got.”

“When can I get ya to call me Krios?” he asks her, then. While decidedly off-limits and visibly in love with Marston, something about her makes his heart hurt. He's always tried his best to conduct himself with some kind of regard for the women in the camp. Abigail especially.

“Now, when did we get so familiar?” she asks, though she teases.

Krios shrugs. “We're stuck in this pit. You and the other gals … I consider you my friends.”

“Some folk say that it's impossible for men and women to be friends as such,” Abigail muses. “Always somethin' to distract the mind.”

That idea always made him make a snorting sound to rival any of their horses. “Some folk are fuckin' morons,” he says, then stops when it dawns on him and he clears his throat. “Excuse my language.”

“You're excused,” she says with a wry smile. “Charming as ever, city boy.”

“Friends is friends,” he says, struggling to find a way to put it better than that. “Man, woman … it's all arbitrary to me. Character is what matters, Abigail. And besides, if I only ever spent time with men, I'd've thrown myself off of the nearest cliff _years_ ago.”

At that, Abigail laughs in such a way that it sounds like bells on a summer breeze. “You are a dangerous man, Krios Devereux. If you can get your act together, you're going to make some poor woman very distressed someday.”

Krios snorts and he wishes he could tell her how funny the idea is, but instead he says, “I s'pose.”

Abigail quirks a dark eyebrow and she asks, “What, you gonna tell me you're not the marryin' sort?”

And he exhales, shifts his gaze to her face. “I got a Greek father and a black mother and I run with a gang of outlaws, Abigail,” says Krios, and those are only the polite details. “I don't got tangible skills beyond a proficiency at … sedition and robbery. Not exactly the most ideal circumstances for marital bliss.”

“Which is why I said if you can get your act together,” says Abigail. “You still just as much of a fool as the rest of 'em. And as to who your parents are – don't none of that matter out here. _Character_ is what does, like you said, hm?”

The corner of his mouth tugs with the beginning of a smile, however much that makes her sound like she lives in the clouds. “My parents had to flee to New York _precisely_ because it matters, miss. Don't ever forget that slaves built this country, not the angry European peasants that hold it hostage now.”

“I know you never forgot,” she says, her voice gentle. “Ain't that what brought you to us in the first place?”

* * *

Well, things fuck up rather spectacularly.

It doesn't surprise Krios, but it certainly doesn't comfort him. Williamson's dynamite stolen off the O'Driscolls meant to stop the damned train in the first place doesn't go off. Seems even Arthur's famous fix-it abilities can't help them along with that one, a point Krios would _absolutely_ be saving to make fun of him with if they manage to survive this job.

Krios sees all of this happen from a distance. Dutch's orders are clear on the way down: Krios would follow the action on horseback with a sighted rifle and a keen eye for the correction of mischief – be they outriders or the stupidity of man. A job that Krios is content enough with, what with the skittish, newly half-broken wild horse bobbing around between his legs. The gunshots were already bound to make her flighty. The blare of an approaching train is enough.

Things were supposed to go off with a bang. Krios purses his lips together to suppress an incredulous laugh and tries instead to remember the look on every man's face when that bang never came, and the train just rushes on by. He thanks the Lord that the bandana covers his face lest he be accused of never taking anything too seriously as these grown men bicker like fishwives.

Arthur, Lenny, Javier _run_ as fast as they can manage after the train, so Krios resolves following it along, nice and steady with the Yeti. It's at least a little funny when Javier can't manage to cling to the top of the train when they make their desperate leap and rolls off fast. Krios checks on him, despite how obvious it is he's getting a kick out of the sight, riding right up.

Krios can't resist it when he says, “Shit, I think you handled that well.”

“Ha ha, _pendejo_ ,” he says with a scowl between attempts to catch his breath, already waving Krios off with a sharp impatience. “Don't worry about me, the others'll be here soon. You keep after Lenny and Arthur. Go!”

So he does, clicks his teeth and rears the Yeti to a gallop after the steaming train. It's a _lot_ of unstable ground to cover, but she seems up for the task, and all he can do is hope that Arthur and Lenny can combine their brains to get one functioning brain and stop the train before it's too late. The stress pumps in his veins as he rides.

For that while, it's just the two of them. And she flies, this beast, she flies so fast and so agile through the rocky terrain that it's both the most difficult and the most exhilarating obstacle to keep her under him and steady as she goes. The wind whips past his face and with one hand stables his own hat on his head as they ride whip quick and unstoppable. Never in his 20-odd years of life did he meet a horse that doubles as a bolt of lightning.

Once the gunshots start, he just follows his ear. It also means they wouldn't be alone for long, but compartmentalizing is key. The speed of the ride puts him in something of a trance, but once he sees the train conductor with Arthur in a headlock he's brought careening back to the present moment. In one smooth motion Krios whips his rifle out, cocks the hammer, takes a breath. The sound zigzags through the rocks, and the conductor's body slumps backward, dead from the hole in his temple. The train needed to stop before they got over the upcoming bridge. Arthur catches his eye, and Krios mimics a gun with two fingers.

Arthur's able to fling himself to the controls and yank the train to a screeching, efficient halt at last and Krios exhale a single breath of relief before everything blows up in their faces all over again.

Once it's stationary, stragglers crawl out of the train car with guns blazing, and Krios goes about picking them off and providing cover for the others. It gives Arthur and Lenny enough of an opening to jump into cover of their own and the seconds seem to tick past with a mind-numbing effect, the three of them mowing down the unfortunate Cornwall guards.

“You got some good timing, Krios!” Lenny hollers out from his position.

“Focus, kid,” he hollers back, though Lenny's no slouch, and sees him dispatching these guards with no small amount of pride brimming in his chest. Krios wishes he could've been that capable at just 19. “Push up on the bastards.”

“Where the hell are the others?” Arthur demands to no one in particular.

“Not sure,” Krios replies, pauses to reload while making sure he didn't lose another horse to a stray bullet. “Maybe I can prove I'm not fulla shit, huh, Art?”

“Shut up and shoot.”

The volume of goons isn't surprising when attaching it to Cornwall's payroll, and also speaks well to the dragon's hoard they're guarding. And they keep shooting them until Dutch and the others ride in at last and pick off the ones remaining, giving the three of them a moment to take a breath from the bloodbath.

Arthur approaches him on foot as Krios swipes a particularly fetching silver pocket watch off of one of the stiffs. He expresses his gratitude, albeit begrudgingly, and surprises Krios by offering his hand for a shake, “You still full of shit, Devereux, but … that was good shootin'.”

Krios, blind-sided by the genuine praise, grabs that offered hand without a moment's thought as he tries to catch his breath, “Don't sweat it.”

There's something to be said about Arthur's compliments. He's such a sour, weathered bastard that it's a rare gem to bask in with those deadshot blue eyes pointed one's way, though Krios doesn't preen for long before Dutch summons them all back for the final push. Krios crosses the distance to stand beside Javier as it all unfolds.

Dutch makes his charming threats. Krios watches how he speaks, his mannerisms, the way he tries to sound almost friendly with the assurance of robbery and potential death. It all goes the way it usually does, though he knows from one eyeball to the private train car that no bullets were getting through it. Krios figures it's more about the scare tactic than the logic of it so he doesn't bother wasting his .38, as dynamite follows soon after.

Without a word, Krios moves to hold onto the Yeti's jaw rope and keep her settled for the upcoming blast. Not natural for a prey animal to stand in the face of man's explosives and not run for the hills, and she's too fresh to not try it, and way too fast to catch. Krios hushes her under his breath when the charge is lit and the earth shakes with the detonation. Pure instinct has him flinch as the horse rears itself high, bounces up and down with the raw anxiety of it as more men are ushered out of the train car at gunpoint.

Once she's settled, Krios watches in silence. Arthur, Lenny, and Micah mount the car, go about the business of the actual robbing. The rest of them wait, and the ticking clock before word reaches the law gets under his skin. A dull glow from the electric lamps cast on the lot of them, and the lengths they'd go for one scrap of escape.

* * *

Wild and poorly timed as the train job is, it speeds up their effort to get the hell off of the mountain. Hosea has a position in mind, so they're meant to follow. Can't rob a Cornwall asset and stay in the state, so Krios rides up and down the caravan. To pass the time, Krios is hoping to annoy Hosea into telling him another of the wild tales he's got trapped in his brain somewhere. Hosea is an old man in a profession not known for its longevity, and he's also a theater type. Most con-men are – they got the best stories, which he intends to dig out of Hosea once he stops forcing Krios to down that godawful ginseng concoction.

The landscape is pretty. Big, hulking rock formations and steep cliffside everywhere, covered with thickets of quaking aspens and other pockets of forest at the rivers edge. After a little while with no trouble he rides ahead to where Karen dangles her feet out of the wagon, bored with the descent.

Krios says without any real thought, as he watches how the beams kiss her face on the back of his horse, “Spring sunlight suits you, Miss Jones.”

“I ain't got _no_ use for flattery, Krios,” though she says it with a wry smile. “Why don't you tell me a story, huh? Put that silver tongue to actual use and relieve me of my boredom.”

Tilly rides in the wagon with her and pokes her head out. “Ooh, yes. One of the legends with the funny names. I don't know how the hell you remember 'em all.”

“Well,” Krios sucks his teeth, considers the request and starts reviewing any story that would suit in the archive in his brain. It hits him. “Does the story of Orpheus sound familiar at all?”

“'Course it don't,” says Karen, lighting a cigarette. “Go on, city boy.”

“Ah, it's a good one.” Krios lets the Yeti match the speed of the caravan, takes a deep breath, and lets his mind wander with the details just as prescribed to him by his own grandfather. “He got a lot of 'em, so I'll just pick one. See, as the legend goes, Orpheus was the son of Apollo. Apollo is the god of the sun, but he's also the god of music. So it follows that the father teaches his son how to play, and he manages to raise the most talented musician the world's yet seen. Soon, he grows up to be play the lyre so beautifully, _nobody_ can resist him – man or beast, friend or foe. Kinda guy that could charm wolves into a Viennese waltz.”

Karen rests her face in her hands, a contented smile as she listens, nursing the cigarette between her fingers. “Go on.”

“He meets Eurydice,” Krios continues. “Love of his life, as it happens. A beautiful, vibrant woman that – of all the people he would play for – he longed to play for the most. They married, o'course, and he loved her true; and while Greek men are dogs, we still love sincerely.”

“I bet that's what they all say,” Tilly remarks, and he laughs.

Krios grins but he focuses on the tale, “Way the story goes, one day Eurydice is out dancing with the Nymphs in the forest when she's bitten on the ankle by a viper and succumbs fast, dying in that forest before Orpheus can get to her in time.”

The girls' face shift with the tone of the story as he goes on to explain to them, “Orpheus is so overcome with grief at her loss that he sings. Sings so full of mourning and despair that the forest hears him. And the trees are the ears of the gods, so it follows that they hear him, too. Every being, natural or otherwise, hears him, in fact – and they all feel his sadness at the loss. The gods are moved: enough to give him a shot to travel to the Underworld and retrieve his wife.”

The telling of Orpheus always makes him miss his own family. “Now, it's the Underworld. Ya can't just march in, that's a guarded realm only meant for the souls of the damned.”

“Sounds like quite a man.”

Krios nods. “Orpheus was protected by the gods. Like I said, a unique opportunity – and he presents himself to Hades and Persephone, king and queen of the Underworld, and plays his tale of woe for them on that lyre in his hands. Normally, gods don't much care about the goings-on of us lowly mortals. In fact, they usually _start_ problems in our realm; but this time's different. Orpheus in his profound grief plays so beautifully that Hades allows him to seek Eurydice's soul out in the Underworld to bring her back home. Hell, it's said that the sound he could make was so sweet that the three-headed hell-hound Cerberus would follow him around, just to catch a note.”

It dawns on him, on the retelling to those who don't know just how ridiculous Greek legends can be and in the watching of their faces, that it all must sound ridiculous. Still, his audience is attentive and has nothing better to do, so they listen.

“But,” Krios says, holding a finger up, “the thing is with the gods you always gotta remember is that there's _always_ a catch. Favors aren't granted lightly, not in this world or the next. Orpheus is allowed to look for her, but he can't look _at_ her as he leads her out. Eurydice is dead, after all. Her soul is nothin' more than a shade. If he can do that, it's like she never left. If he can't, she returns to Hades forever.”

Karen tilts her head and she asks, “Only the one chance, then?”

“Son of Apollo or not, he's a mortal walking in the realm of Hades,” Krios replies with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Can't do that twice, Miss Karen. It'd make a mockery of the gods.”

Karen snorts. “Seems a lot could make a mockery outta them.”

Karen doesn't know how correct she is, but he doesn't have time to get into it. “So,” Krios continues, bobbing along on his saddle as the fine scenery passes him by, “Orpheus thinks to himself, alright, this is gonna be easy. I'm a patient man and I love my wife and I've come all this way, let's do it. Thing is while down there, he can't hear her footsteps, there's no earthly body _to_ hear – he has no way to know that she's actually there. He has to trust the word of Hades, and play toward the light of the mortal realm. It's only with that light can she be restored to a normal woman.”

“Ain't Hades just another way of sayin' the Devil?” Tilly asks of him, then. “So, it follows that Orpheus _shouldn't_ trust his word worth a damn.”

“Ah, it ain't like the Devil in the Bible,” Krios explains to her. “All the gods is capricious, arrogant, and damn petty. They torture the living for their own amusement, so let's just say that the morality is kinda muddy. Hades is a complex figure – some would argue guilty of kidnapping his own wife – but this is _his_ kingdom, and he's given his word. Orpheus' task is to trust him.”

Karen shifts in her seat. “So? What happened?”

Krios exhales through his nose and he tells her true, “He tries to keep the faith. But deprived of his senses to confirm that she's there, he has to operate _solely_ on faith. And he makes a good show of it, marching all the way up to the gates of our world … but he loses that faith, just a few feet from the exit, he turns to get a look at her.”

“Typical,” says Karen, and the sound she lets out makes him laugh in a sort of crystalline agreement. “Give a man one easy job and he can't even do that right.”

“Orpheus does sees her for the passing of a moment, and then she disappears; this time forever,” he finally tells them. “And to his credit, he tries to go back, but as I told you before – gods don't grant such favors easy, 'specially not twice.”

He almost wishes there's some sort of happily ever after to offer these crestfallen young women, but the Greeks had no concept of such a thing, and he's not a believer in bullshitting. Karen does ask him, “What happened to Orpheus after that?”

Krios purses his lips. “It's an old legend. People got different versions of this story and how it ended … but the way my grandfather told me, is that he was struck down by Zeus, in fear of his revealing the secrets of the Underworld to other humans.”

“Can't have that,” says Karen with a laugh. “Well, goddamn, serves him right! I think the worst part is that he was right there, too. _That_ close to bein' reunited with … Eura-somethin'?”

Krios keeps a vigilant eye on the treeline as he says, “Eurydice. And yes, a real parable on the virtues of patience and keepin' faith in the will of the gods. The Greeks loved that. The punishing of hubris 'n the like.”

“Would you consider patience one of your virtues, Mr. Krios?” says Karen.

He snorts. “Christ, no,” and the girls chuckle as he adds, “But … to bring my love back from the dead? I dunno. I think I'd've found the patience.”

Tilly tilts her head with a teasing smile and she says, “You got a heart past all that gun powder, huh, Krios?”

“I fight for two things, Miss Tilly,” he replies, idly passing an admittedly stale oat cake into his horse's willing gullet. “The dismantling of the state … and love.”

And Karen grins as she tosses the used cigarette to the ground beneath and she asks him outright, “What you got to say about love? Who broke that steely heart of yours, city boy?”

Oh, what a list. Krios throws them both an enigmatic smile and says simply, “That's a story for another time, doll.”


	4. The Merits of a Funny Yarn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy! Stay safe out there in these trying and scary times, and let's take solace in what we can. Thank you for reading along.
> 
> In which our not-hero keeps his ear to the ground for the next take, and gets perhaps a little more than any sane shootist would bargain for.

The day is so beautiful it feels like he's being taunted. Exhausted, run down, and disheartened as everyone's been these past few weeks, it's enough to make the heart gasp for air that doesn't freeze. The Overlook is isolated, and the breeze is a thing that welcomes you. After their ordeal, there's a vein of hope of better days to come that creeps through the camp. Whether it's in vain or not is anyone's guess, but the weather is nice enough that ignoring it altogether comes as easy as the rising of the sun on the horizon.

Blackwater used to be the farthest east many have ever seen but here they are, at the edges of dreaded civilization.

Never a stranger to life on the lam, Krios keeps his ear to the ground in the local mudhole that serves as the nearest town. There's a thing about open country that always rings true, no matter where he ends up – there's a strangeness to be found in every corner. All manner of it. There's a depravity that can exist in the vastness of open land, squirreled into corners that go ignored by the world at large. Makes robbing less of a black and white issue, bathes it in shades of gray.

It follows that finding a fence in the Heartlands isn't hard. Hosea points him in the right direction, seems to trust him with the contact though Krios is warned to stay ten paces away from the owner. The fact that Hosea's contact is some balding, brow-beaten old farm hand in Emerald Ranch is funnier, and Krios has never been picky when it comes to quick cash. The man's dull as rocks and fancies himself as clever as a fox, but his money is right and he treats Krios with at least some measure of fairness. Enough fairness not to blatantly rip him off, but only somewhat rip him off.

“I can do 20 for this,” says Seamus, running a finger over the shining watch Krios places in his hand.

“Twenny?” Krios cries, swiftly yanking it back to dangle before the man's aging eyes. “This is platinum, friend. Engraved platinum! With the mechanism still in tact, for Christ's sake.”

Seamus scoffs, crosses his arms. “And the poor bastard you likely swiped it from wore it down some.”

“I resent the implication that anyone was harmed in the acquisition of this fine piece,” says Krios, cocking a dark eyebrow. “Shining platinum, functional mechanism, gotta be worth at least 40 bucks.”

“30,” Seamus says, taking the watch back to eyeball it in a beam of sunlight. “And you'll not get any higher than that from anyone here to West Elizabeth, that I guarantee ya.”

Krios sucks his teeth, stomps one foot in a moment's reflection but relents. “Fine, that'll do.”

“You been cultivating some fine livin', son? 30 bucks ain't no chicken feed,” Seamus jeers. And Krios hasn't had a proper bath in at least a week, so he wonders how much sarcasm is really intended. “Riding in here with a fine horse and a platinum watch to hawk … some folk would say you're doin' better than them.”

Oh, how little some folk know. “First rule of life, Seamus – ya never know a man's story til he's told it himself.”

“And what's a young gun like you know about any of the rules of life, huh?” Seamus asks him, then, chuckling as he pretends to have an air of aged wisdom though he's too dumb to see it's fallen flat. Seamus slaps down the agreed price for the watch in Krios' open palm. “Survive into yer 40s, and then come talk to me about rules of life. Though … a young gun might be exactly what I need.”

Krios nods his head toward him. “Oh yeah? Why's that?”

“Well,” and Seamus makes a point of herding him into the barn to speak in a hushed tone, “There's … a woman that lives up toward the Three Sisters, round Moonstone Pond, I reckon. I've had a feelin' for awhile now she's out in them woods all by herself, likely sittin' pretty on a pile of jewels.”

Krios blinks and eyes the man like a loon, as he certainly sounds like one in this moment. “You think I got time to chase after tall tales outta penny novels, Seamus?”

“Try and find some patience, city boy,” says Seamus, and he clears his throat before he explains, “I know this because she comes here once every few months, some kinda jewel in her hand to sell – likely for provisions. Once it was a diamond … another time it was the shiniest ruby I reckon I ever saw.”

Krios' interest piques. “This woman … what you know about her?”

“My first guess was some kinda squaw, though from where I couldn't say, had the funniest sorta accent on her. Not sure who her husband was but he musta been a rich feller by the looka what she come to me with. Now, she and I got a kinda … _rapport_ so _I_ couldn't go give her situation an eyeball. But an enterprising young feller like yourself could for … let's say 40% of the take.”

Krios scowls and jabs a finger in Seamus' mug. “You want me to risk my ass for 40% of a take that you ain't even sure exists? And I gotta go off whatever you could pry from this woman, who likely didn't trust ya in the first place?”

“It exists! Them jewels gotta come from _somewhere_.”

“60%,” says Krios. “I'm the one at risk, here.”

Seamus snorts as he says, “Risk! C'mon now. You tellin' me a rough young gun like yerself can't handle a widow in the middle of nowhere, all on her lonesome? Likely in sore need of some male company?”

The urge to roll his eyes is strong. “Women can be more dangerous than we give 'em credit for, friend,” Krios points out, though he suspects it's counsel that would fall on deaf ears. “Who am I to disturb a widow's peace without the right incentive? You want my help with this? 60 percent.”

The fence regards him with narrow eyes for a moment until he says, “I suppose that's the price for this so-called New York expertise I keep hearin' about?”

Only way to talk to country sidewinders like Seamus is to make him believe he's the smartest man in the room. “That's the price for _my_ expertise, dear Seamus,” Krios says with a knowing glint in his eye, rests a reassuring hand on Seamus' shoulder. “This kinda job requires some finesse. Why else ask me in on this creepy venture you been cookin', a stranger to ya but an hour ago? It means you _see_ that I ain't fulla shit.”

Seamus mulls on it for the passing of a moment, then sticks his hand out to seal the deal. “You got a bargain … though discretion's part of that price.”

“Like a church mouse,” Krios says when he takes that hand.

* * *

The Yeti thrives in these long stretches of open road. The ride back to the Overlook is scenic and it's still early, though the sky rumbles with light showers of rain. A new and interesting lead to mull over, he resolves to fill his belly with some lunch and see about this widow in the hills as soon as he can muster it. Whether or not he would take anyone along remains to be seen, though one man is less intimidating than two.

Dutch harps on about how they need to make money, after all.

It's an uneventful trek and he cuts through Flatneck Station, and it's in the crossing of the train tracks that he spots an unconscious figure slumped at the base of a tree. Could very well be a corpse, though as Krios rides up he detects the rise and fall of breath. And it's only when he rides close enough that he realizes who it is, sprawled into the mud and dirt in an unceremonious display of haphazard sloth.

Krios throws his head back in a laugh as they are gently rained on and Arthur's rousted to some kind of consciousness, though the smell informs Krios of all he really needs to know of the night before. Shifting on his saddle, he leans his head over the drunken man in his stupor as he groans and gurgles to life. “Arthur. Hey! You alive down there?”

“No,” says Arthur, eyes wrenching open. “Agh, goddammit … where the hell am I?”

That's the problem with Arthur. There's no moderation – he's either stone cold sober or swinging drunk. As if the man refuses to exist in any state of nuance. “I see drinks with Lenny went well.” And as Arthur tries to force himself to his feet, swearing all the way, Krios adds for his benefit, “I'd take it easy, you don't wanna do too much too soon–!”

Krios speaks too late and with whatever remains of his strength Arthur grips at the trunk of the nearest tree and doubles over in a resounding vomit, desperately pushing his hair from his eyes. Krios grimaces, not just at the stench but the scene itself. Shallow cuts mark his sun-tanned face though he doesn't faze them yet. God only knows what must have happened.

Of course the urge to mock is there but Arthur is a sorry sight. Pity leads Krios to jump off of the Yeti and offer the poor bastard a much needed swig from his canteen of fresh water, once his guts are voided. “Here, try and wash your mouth out.”

Arthur slumps and lets loose the last contents of his stomach before grabbing at the canteen, head angled back as he sucks down the much needed gulp of water. When his throat is clear he says, “Shit … thank you.”

Without a word, Krios offers him a roll of bread he'd squirreled away before riding out to see Seamus this morning. “Eat this. C'mon.”

Arthur nods his thanks and takes an unceremonious chunk of the roll with one clean bite, his knees all but giving out beneath him as he sits at the base of the tree and tries to finish off the rest. A distinct cloud of self-pity buzzes round the man's head like bees and Krios watches him transition between labored bites of the roll and sips of water from the canteen as he slowly takes the space beside Arthur under the tree.

For a little while, they sit there in silence. The man's no spring chicken, seems to have been hungover too many times to count, and this one would be a slow recovery. Arthur takes deep, deliberate breaths and tries to collect himself and the rain above their heads sprinkles down. The birds chirp round their ears. The breeze meanders by. Everything is still.

When Krios does stand back up, he asks, “Is it even worth askin'?”

“Can't even remember,” Arthur grumbles, leans the back of his head against the trunk of the tree. “Christ … I hope Lenny's okay.”

Krios laughs and remembers the sight of a hungover Lenny, caked in mud and pallid in the face, hobbling back into camp and waves the concern away with a hand. “Kid's fine, showed up this morning after a night in the clink. Seems he didn't get as lucky in the getaway. The mind _boggles_ how the hell you managed it, but I feel like you couldn't tell me if you wanted to.”

And Arthur snorts, gestures to himself. “This look lucky to you?”

“Least the hangover didn't cost you ten bones, huh?” Krios rests his hands on his hips as he drinks the scene in some more. “Just a little self-respect! You didn't even get robbed, ya big bastard. I'd call that lucky.”

“How'd you even find me, anyway?”

The Yeti snorts beside Krios and nudges his cheek with her nose as he replies, “I wasn't lookin'. Had my own business, was on my way back to camp before I seen you and thought you was some dead guy.”

“Hosea send you sniffin' after that fence in Emerald Ranch?”

Krios nods. “Gotta hand it to the old man, he moves fast.”

“And?”

“I got somethin'.”

Arthur exhales into the cold air. “You were right about me bein' a dead body on the side of the road, then.”

“S'a hangover, Art, you'll be grand,” says Krios in a deadpan, signaling the end of any real sympathy for a hangover's melodrama.

Arthur smooths a hand over his face before he says more to himself than to Krios, “Shit … did I leave Jolene in town?”

The cadence of the name is amusing in of itself, let alone when Krios' imagination runs wild with the image of what kind of woman Arthur attracts for lonely saloon rumbles. “What, you find some unfortunate woman that don't mind the smell of body odor, horse shit, 'n beer?”

Arthur scowls at him. “Jolene's my horse, asshole.”

In fairness to himself, Krios still believes that Jolene is more fitting a name for some sultry songstress to be found in a dump saloon in the middle of New Austin, not a freckled racehorse. Krios doesn't stifle his laugh and he asks, “You named that mare you bought in town _Jolene_?”

The scowl downgrades to a squint. “I _know_ you're not lookin' at me like that when you named the wild beast you found in the damn snow after an abominable snowman.”

“She _is_ an abominable snowman,” Krios says with a proud grin, idly brushing his fingers through the white tresses of her mane. “And you better be nice to the Yeti if you want any hope of a ride back into Valentine to fetch _Jolene_.”

Arthur grunts, makes a second and more successful attempt to stand to his feet though he's upright with a noticeable slouch. “Didn't want to have to ask but … could ya?”

Krios exhales through his nose and tries to ignore the rumbling of his belly for some decent food. “Yeah, get on. Like I said, introduce yourself or she'll buck us both off.”

To a born and bred hick it's all child's play, but he watches Arthur approach her with caution and respect and smooth a hand over her neck, however irritated and grumpily hungover he is. The Yeti more or less accepts him as a passenger. She's not as tall as his racehorse so he swings one leg over the side of her and situates himself. “It's a damn miracle she ain't killed you yet. That's a gorgeous horse but she is still wild, make _no_ mistake on that score.”

Mounting up, Krios is immediately assaulted by the smell of an unwashed, hungover cowboy and he's grateful his back is turned because his nose wrinkles on instinct. It's a strange enough sensation with the height difference between them. “Me 'n the Yeti got a bond you cannot _begin_ to comprehend, Simple Simon.”

“Uh huh, can't comprehend,” Arthur grumbles behind him as Krios snaps the reins and points the Yeti in the direction of Valentine. “Hell, ain't been more than two days since I last seen her throw you into the dirt in camp.”

Krios still has a purpling bruise on his thigh to remember it by. The pain's easy enough to ignore, however gnarly it looks to the eye. “That's just how she shows affection sometimes.”

“A damn miracle,” Arthur says again and shakes his head.

“Oi,” says Krios and has the Yeti gallop faster, “Ain't I the one doin' you the favor right now, ya drunken fool? Hold on and shut up.”

The bouncing is a mistake with immediate consequences for Arthur's nausea and he leans over to rest his head on Krios' shoulder in an attempt to hold back the urge to dry heave. He groans all the while. The heat that comes off of his body is like being strapped to a campfire.

Krios swears under his breath as he compensates for the extra and noticeable weight and he says, “Christ, Art.”

“M'sorry,” Arthur croaks back when he can speak again, coughing up a hollow burp as he begs Krios to, “Just … please … slow down. Let's just … mosey and you can tell me about what you got out of this fence.”

He exhales sharp through his nose. “Fence asked me to do a job for him.”

“And why the hell would he get in business with a stranger?”

Krios smiles and begins to explain, “He spun a yarn about some widow sitting on a stash of jewels up near the Three Sisters … some place near Moonstone Pond. Clearly a level of finesse that's beyond the man.”

Even from behind Krios can wager a solid guess at the expression on Arthur's face. “Please don't tell me you believed that shit.”

Krios throws his shoulders in a shrug. “Ol' Seamus swears he's seen her himself during the odd times she needs money for supplies. I, much like a magpie, would _never_ stick my nose up at the chance to acquire some shiny things.”

Arthur scoffs. “And what exactly is the master plan?”

“I'll come up with somethin'.”

“Will you, now?” and Arthur chuckles. “Gotta hand it to ya, Devereux … you got sand, alright.”

They ride together and Krios glances behind him as he says, “It's a worth an eyeball if even one _half_ of it is true. Story's too specific … a widow in the woods sittin' on jewels like some kinda dragon.”

“You gonna get anyone else in on this?”

“Nah,” says Krios. “A woman alone? It's best I do this myself.”

The bag of bones formerly known as Arthur perks up once Krios finds the speed that doesn't make him vomit, the wind and the rain doing him good in terms of the return of his bodily functions. A skeptical noise escapes him and he says, “I'm going to hope against hope that you're not arrogant enough to believe you'll be able to seduce some solitary woman in the wilderness out of her savings.”

Krios flashes his telltale shark-toothed grin, then. “If I run out of other options, who knows? I do _very_ well with older women.”

“Good God,” Arthur groans, gripping the saddle with both hands. “You're gonna get shot and it's gonna be your own damn fault.”

One day Krios will remember to properly ask Arthur if he's been fermenting his bitterness for 30-odd years on purpose or accident. “Tch, Arty the lemon salesman, so damn sour,” says Krios, taking the time to properly laugh at him as the smoke stacks of Valentine creep over the hills. “Ain't my fault you haven't had a fuck since the crucifixion of Christ.”

Arthur lets out an _incredulous_ snort and through a rasping laugh he says to Krios, “Just for that, I hope she does shoot you.”

* * *

Krios gets a good gander at one of Javier's maps of the region and makes his route, plans his rations out, and manages to slip out into the wee hours of the morning when only Swanson is conscious and he's able to force black coffee down his throat. The Yeti is, as ever, eager not to be pent up with the rest of the horses so he mounts up without much fuss from her. Krios slips an apple into her sights as a bribe for good behavior.

The ride up through New Hanover into the Grizzlies is a scenic one. The trees never end, the birds fly above his head, and the horizon just seems to keep stretching on and on. They picked a beautiful spot of country to desperately hide from the law in, and Krios watches the sun rise on the horizon as he and Yeti and make their way through the winding country roads that lead north to Moonstone Pond. A solo jaunt does wonders for his own reckoning of the events of the past couple of weeks. Dancing so close to the edge of a Pinkerton's noose is never his preferred state of being, though they seem to be gunning for Dutch more than anyone else in the outfit.

The ride up itself is an unexpected pocket of peace for him. Being surrounded at all sides by at least 20 people is not something he's a stranger to, but it can take a toll on one's inner monologue. There's only so many times he can listen to Dutch attempt to make an exasperated speech without wanting to stick his head in a lake.

Overall, it takes about four hours on sustained horseback. Krios' bones ache after the ride but he's made it and stops not far from his goal beneath a shaded tree in a pretty glen to eat some dried venison, give his horse a rest, and situate the remainder of his journey. He crouches by a creek and refills his canteen all the while. The higher he makes his way up into the Grizzlies the more mountain becomes visible, and the crisper the air tastes on the tongue.

A single shot rings out. Birds flee in its wake.

The Yeti starts to fuss, trotting in place on her legs and Krios hushes her and holds her close with the jaw rope, smooths a hand over the expanse of her head until she calms. He swings one leg back over her saddle and rides the Yeti, slow and steady, until he can hear the distinct sound of conversation, and when he turns the corner he spies its source.

In a flash, Krios learns two things: one, the woman is very real, and two, he's not the only curious cat. From his vantage point he can make out the sturdy homestead, the small barn beside it, and a meticulously kempt patch of crops. And on the porch, who he assumes to be the fabled woman is pointing a loaded rifle at two men. These two men, in turn, are pointing their pistols right back at her.

At first glance, Krios can make out that these two had a similar idea to him. Why they've chosen to show themselves to her in the blistering sun of the afternoon is anyone's guess, but Krios recognizes that this situation he's stumbled into might present him with a unique opportunity.

The time for plans stops abruptly when the three of them notice his approach. Krios calls out, “Ma'am, these two botherin' you?”

“Who the hell are you?” one of them cries. The pair of them look like escaped, disenfranchised ranch hands with how they grip their revolvers so, tight enough that their pale knuckles seem ever the paler. “You'd best move along if you got any sense at all, mister.”

The woman all but spits at them, rifle cocked as she says, “You're not the one in charge here.”

For the life of him Krios can't place her accent, but it certainly isn't any kind of Native that he's aware of. His first instinct is that it sounds British but this isn't an English woman he's looking at. Seen too many of the rich ones in New York not to be able to spot one from a mile off.

The woman has skin the shade of mahogany, high cheekbones, dark hair that hangs in a plait over her shoulder, and a pair of eyes that strike him to the marrow. She shifts her gaze to confront Krios' approach and the sun catches the glint of the mouth of the rifle.

“Well, folks,” says Krios as he dismounts, keeping a distinctly breezy air to the tone of his voice as he walks over, hands up palms forward, surrounded by all these armed strangers, “It appears we find ourselves deadlocked. Now, ma'am, tell me somethin' – did you just catch these two stooges tryin' to rob you?”

A beat of silence. She drinks him in, then she nods. “I did.”

Krios purses his lips, shakes his head in a sincere bout of disappointment. “Hm. And in broad daylight too, huh? The nerve of these hayseed bastards.”

The loud-mouthed one from before finds some courage and says, all but through his teeth, “What city sewer you crawl out from, you sumbitch?”

As if the man didn't speak at all, Krios makes his way over to the front of the house and says, “Seems your pastoral peace has been disturbed by a balding man with a big mouth, ma'am. Emerald Ranch mean anything to you?”

They're on the same page in an instant. The woman stops to curse under her breath but he can tell by the look on her face that she isn't entirely surprised. It's also his confirmation that these mythical gems aren't that mythic after all. The men exchange looks, and the second of the pair of them that kind of looks like an overgrown child demands, “Christ, did _Seamus_ send you? _You_?”

Krios takes the moment to glance at her and say, “You gotta be more careful who you flash your valuables too, ma'am, or shit like this happens – bastards take advantage, it's a tale as old as the hills. Seems ol' Seamus wanted a professional touch after these two, though.”

“I knew I should have just shot the man and been done with it,” the woman says beside him, which does make him laugh.

“A professional?” the man barks back. “Boy, you look like some city trash on some hair-brained Western adventure. Give me a damn break.”

His .38 slides out of its holster in a flash, and before the man's any the wiser he's staring down its barrel and into the black pits of Krios' eyes as he flashes a jagged smile. “Call me boy again. See how fast I feed your corpse to this nice woman's stock.”

The baby face, the evident brains of the operation, begins to see the extent of their predicament and pivots to a more diplomatic approach. “Look, mister – we don't mean you _no_ trouble, my brother here been cursed with a rough and ready tongue, but we're reasonable men. Seems we've found ourselves in a pickle. Maybe the only way out is if we strike ourselves a deal.”

“A deal,” Krios' voice comes out in a deadpan, keeps his pistol aimed.

“Sure,” he says. “We take care of this here woman – ain't nobody gonna give a damn about some solitary squaw – and split the profits three ways, how's about that?”

Krios' response is shooting his brother's hat off and the pair of them jump, dancing on the ballpoints of their nerves, the man yelping like a kicked dog when it's only his hat that flies off of his body. “Hard no. Here's _my_ deal: run back to Seamus with no holes punched in your body.”

They both balk. “You gotta be kiddin'.”

“Nope,” says Krios, cocking the hammer. He turns his head to address the woman again as he says, “Ma'am, this is your property, you want me to shoot these two fools and be done with it?”

“ _Fine_!” The baby face cries, making a show of holstering his pistol and sticking his hands up. The brother beside him reluctantly does the same, though glares daggers right into Krios' face. “Ain't worth the goddamn stress of it. C'mon, Tommy.”

When Tommy hesitates, Krios keeps his pistol aloft and an eyebrow cocked, waiting for any sign of mischief. Instead, he jabs a pasty finger in Krios' face and tells him, “You ain't seen the last of my face, you goddamn city trash.”

And as they slowly make their way back to wherever it is they stashed their horses for the getaway, Krios cups his hands over his mouth and cries, “I already forget what your face looks like, ya dumb hick. Green son-of-a-bitch.”

He rolls his shoulders when the danger seems to dissipate, watching the backs of the men as they recede into the treeline, and moves to tuck his pistol back into its holster. It's only when Krios turns his head and finds the barrel of that rifle pointed at him, does he remember the delicate nature of his situation.

Krios' hands pop right back up. What can he say? “Can't blame ya, all things considered.”

It's not hostility on her face but there's no small amount of caution. “I ask you who you are, and you will answer me honestly,” she tells him, no reason behind the eyes to make him doubt her. “I don't want a preamble, either. Just your name, stranger.”

“Krios,” he says.

“And are you also here to rob me, Krios?” she demands.

He clears his throat before he replies, “Originally? Yes. But if I still wanted to, don't you think I'd've just taken that deal those two bastards offered me?”

She frowns. “You could just be removing competition.”

A good point. Krios keeps his hands up when he replies, “Honestly, ma'am, I didn't even completely believe I'd find anybody out here, thought this could be a yarn spun by that old Seamus.”

“If you did not believe him,” she asks, “why did you come? Risk this journey and your health for what could have been a wild goose chase?”

Krios laughs despite the gun in his face and he tells her, “Let's just say that I'm in a position where it was worth giving it an eyeball, at least.”

After another moment's deliberation, she lowers the rifle and the breath returns to his lungs, and the woman stares openly into his face to check for duplicity. Instead, she remarks, “I'm simply baffled that you speak to me with … a manner of respect but admit freely that you came here to rob me.”

“I coulda lied,” he says, and while the gun is not in his face her guard is still visible, “but somethin' tells me that wouldn't've worked.”

“No,” she agrees. “I would have shot you.”

“Exactly,” he says. “And as I like not being shot, I figured the truth of things was better for everyone involved.”

The woman takes a moment to size him up again, blinking as it's clear that she isn't sure what she's looking at. “You are … well-spoken for a criminal.”

Krios shrugs. “My view is you haven't met enough criminals, ma'am.”

And he makes her laugh for the first time and it's like a four leaf clover manifests in the palm of his hand. “Come inside and tell me about this fence and what he knows,” and by the tone of her voice he can put together that this isn't a request. “I won't shoot you. I'll even offer you tea.”

It's pleasantly jarring enough that he does a double take, going on to comment as she gestures him inside her fragrant home, “You got a funny way of dealing with trespassers, ma'am.”

And at that, she flashes him an enigmatic smile. Krios can't tell if it captivates him or outright intimidates him. “I am not one to shy away from the big picture.”

One foot in front of the other, he walks past her threshold.


	5. The Politics of a Good Drink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Krios contemplates dedicating his life in service to the milfs of the great outdoors.

The first thing he notices when crossing the threshold is that he's never been surrounded by a nicer smell, like spiced apples but he knows that's not quite right either. The door clicks behind him and more on muscle memory than thought, Krios whips his hat off of his head and holds it to his chest, drinking in his unexpected environs like a street cat ushered into a fine country abode. With one hand he tries to rearrange the cropped curls on his head, unkempt and in good need of a scrub.

His host graciously lets him water and feed the Yeti while they talk, and he makes a point of warning the woman about his horse's tendency to not play well with others.

It's a beautifully decorated house. Finely woven rugs dot the floor – one a deep burgundy inlaid with swirling white design, another beige in color but detailed with small, blue flowers. Tapestries hang on the wall. In the center of the room, a framed picture with a stick of incense burning on either side. The woman lays the rifle up against the wall, makes her way over to the one table near her stove and angles a seat out to him. Spying his hesitation, she says, “You needn't tip toe – I've said I wouldn't shoot you. Come, take a seat.”

“I appreciate the reminder,” he replies, taking the chair offered to him near her stove. Idly, she goes about making a pot of tea. Mounted on the walls are hand-built shelves stacked with glass jars, stuffed with a collection of colored spices, herbs, and dried fruit. Some he can't even identify on sight.

“You may call me Paro,” and he's grateful she says it because that would be his next question. “I find Americans can struggle with my proper name, so it must suit.”

Krios snorts and he leans back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other when he tells her, “Miss Paro, what you'll soon find is that I'm about as American as you are. Which is to say, only when applicable.”

That amuses her as she gets to stoking the fire. “You are a curious young man.”

“I live a curious life, ma'am.”

“I'm sure,” says Paro. “Before these pleasantries, however … you must answer a few questions for me, hm?”

Krios gestures the go ahead, swallows the lump budding in his throat with the way her gaze seems to pierce into him. “Of course.”

Paro nods, content. “The fence. Tell me about him. What exactly did he tell you?”

And he clears his throat, shuffling in his seat as he explains, “About what you'd expect. A woman alone sitting on some kinda pile of jewels. My guess is that the second time you sold him somethin' … he sent somebody to trail after you.”

A moment passes and he sees her hand still on the kettle. “I suppose it's my own fault. I assumed he would be discreet.”

“Seamus said you two had yourselves a _rapport_ ,” and as Krios says it he laughs, incredulously shaking his head. “Just as I figured, you two got as much rapport as your foot does with his ass.”

Paro chuckles. “A woman alone … one assumes easy prey, hm?”

“And by God, one assumes wrong,” says Krios, nodding his chin toward the neatly perched rifle against the wall. “I find it keeps me alive longer not to underestimate certain folks. Most of all a woman just trying to maintain some privacy in a violent world.”

She quirks an eyebrow at him when she asks, “You must be well acquainted with violence, Mr. Krios. I counted two rifles on your horse … plus the gun on your person. To say nothing of any other weapons you inevitably have hidden somewhere on you.”

Good eyes. He would make a note of that. “I have … a comfort with violence,” he tells her, in perhaps the most blatant example of euphemism he's given to anyone outside of the gang. “It's not a point of pride or nothin', ma'am. I just gotta survive.”

There's a moment when she doesn't say anything at all, just watches him out of the corner of her eye as she sets out the placements for tea. When she sets his teacup down he stares at its silver exterior, the intricate engravings in its shape. Questions and more questions flood his mind and he looks around the house again before he asks, “May I ask, Miss Paro … where do you come from? Seamus figured you for Native but I'm listenin' to your accent and seein' how you've decorated your home and I don't … think that's quite right.”

Paro laughs and finally sets the kettle on the stove, pulling up the seat across from him to speak face-to-face. “No, I should think not. You Americans love to dismiss the so-called Old World yet know so little about it.”

“My father is a Greek immigrant,” he says, idly tracing a finger around the rim of the cup with a glint in his eye. A glint of years and years of education from an overzealous, long-winded grandfather. “I know more than you might think.”

And she nods before she says, “I am from Hindustan. You would know it better as India.”

The irony of this woman being an Indian from India as opposed to a Native “Indian” doesn't escape him but he keeps his mouth shut, preferring to stifle the laugh that follows. “Never met nobody from India before.”

“And I have never met anyone who is Greek,” Paro replies. “It is a day of firsts, hm? Though I hope the next one I meet, it isn't because they've come to rob me.”

Krios laughs, bashful, as he taps his fingers on the wooden table top and says, “We tend toward being a proud and honorable people. I just got, uh … whatcha call … exceptional circumstances.”

“I don't expect you to tell me what they are,” she says with a wave of her hand. “I am only curious, I suppose. One reads about outlaws in the newspapers and how they are this apparent _menace_ to civilized society. Yet … here we are, a charming conversation between strangers.”

The kettle starts to scream as Krios replies, “The papers don't want the public to know the sorta circumstances that lead folk to living outside of the law, Miss Paro. It's _actually_ a discussion of class structure, hm? I don't make a habit of robbing anyone that didn't already hoard their wealth while the lost and starving die on the streets of every city in this God forsaken place.”

Paro stands to her feet to fetch the kettle. “So you consider yourself – and those like you – more like Robin Hood figures than devils.”

Dutch's face flashes into his mind. “No, I … I don't do enough for the poor to be that deluded,” he says without hesitation, and he glances to the floor once with a spot of shame. “I met some vile men before. Kinda murderous bastards with bounties on their heads that'll shoot you for ten dollars. But the worst humanity has to offer are the ones with all the power, Miss Paro. That's a truth as old as the hills. And they're the ones that own the newspapers, they're the ones that pay strike breakers to kill workers, and they're the ones forcing people into lives outside the law.”

And she takes it all in with no argument, pouring the fragrant tea into his cup. A beat passes and she asks him, “What forced you into this life, Krios?”

By the look on her face she expects a lie. It's a bold question to ask a stranger and they both know it. Krios leans back in his seat and he says, outright, “My mother was born a slave. To a rich, Southern family with … a big plantation.” Krios pauses, takes enough of a gulp of the tea to soothe him but not enough to burn his tongue before he sniffs and finally says, holding her gaze all the while, “I burnt it to cinders a week after my 18th birthday. Been running ever since.”

Paro's eyebrows shoot up. Of all the things he could have told her, she doesn't anticipate the naked truth of it. “Was slavery not abolished in this country decades ago?”

“Yes,” he says. “My parents sent me down south because I was getting into too much trouble in New York, where I grew up. Most of those old slave-owning families collapsed after the war … not them. Vile bastards managed to stay comfortable. Until I came to town, anyway. Then... then they weren't so comfortable.”

Aside from the gang, no one knows. Most don't understand. Some _can't_ understand, not in the way they need to. Yet he's unable to read her face, anticipate a word out of her mouth when she says, “So … you blew up your life for an act of justice.”

He chortles, relieved to find her amenable to the story. “Most wouldn't call it an act of justice, Miss Paro. Most would just call it arson – the destruction of private property.”

“It is justice,” she says without a moment's hesitation. It makes him feel a ball of warmth pool in his gut. “And as you are the first generation to be born free … it was overdue. Of that I have no doubt.”

And he, completely taken aback, leans in his seat to tell her, “Seems I ain't the only one that's curious.”

“I killed my vicious bastard of a husband,” she says, as freely as if commenting on the turning of the weather with the seasons. Krios blinks, processes her words as best he can as she goes on to say, “Justice always has a price, Mr. Krios. It is a lesson that I think you and I are intimately acquainted with, yes?”

There's a serenity behind her eyes that means she's long since made peace with it. How many scumbag husbands does he know of that deserve to be in the ground? Every moment spent with this woman only adds to his growing admiration for everything that she is. “Seems we both got a tale of woe, Miss Paro.”

“This world is one never-ending tale of woe,” she replies with a soft smile, drinking from her cup. And they sit across from each other and drink their tea, seemingly bonded over the inherent violence of their past, present, and future. “I don't regret it, just as I expect you don't regret what you did. It forced me to give everything up … hence,” she gestures to her surroundings with both arms, “my American solitude. Bought and paid for with his money.”

They chat like that for at least another half hour, though the time escapes him and it never occurs to him to check his watch. There's an ease that he speaks with her that he hasn't felt in a long time. Her intelligence, her sophistication, the razor sharp wit – he wonders about the finer details of her story just as he's sure she's wondering about the finer details of his.

Krios glances out the window, sees how much closer it's getting to sunset. If he wants to be back into the Heartlands before it's too dark to see straight, he knows he has to make his exit.

“That was delicious tea, Miss Paro, I thank you,” he says, standing to his feet. “And that ain't even me being polite, I've genuinely never had tea this delicious before.”

And she smiles. “I enjoy your company, it was no trouble.”

Krios begins his walk toward the door and as he does, he tells her, “If you want, I can go have a word with that Seamus. I can get him to leave you be from now on. Won't take much, I figure.”

“That is kind,” she says though she doesn't seem too concerned, and takes his hand to give it a strong, firm shake. What baffles him is what she slips past him. Krios' eyes bulge when he looks down and catches the bright glimmer of a sapphire. A beautiful gem that fits right into the palm of his hand.

It's the most vibrant shade of blue he's ever seen. Thoughtlessly he ignores the very reason for this trip and he tries to give it right back. “I … can't accept this, I–?”

“You can,” she interjects, smoothly and with her mind made up. “You will. Consider it my thanks for your efforts today. As well as your candor with me. I didn't expect it, truth be told. Not at all.”

It's as if she's knocked him over the head with a baseball bat. After a double take he says, mystified, “I threatened some fools and had some tea.”

And she flashes him that enigmatic smile that sets the butterflies fluttering in his throat and she says, “Take it – I have enough for my own survival. Only promise that you will keep yourself safe and come visit me again, whenever the circumstances of your life give you a free moment.”

The prospect of returning for another spiced cup of tea with this gorgeous woman is not something to be sniffed at. Krios readjusts his hat on his head, heart skipping and blood pumping with his spirits renewed, and he says to her, “I'd like that, Miss Paro.”

“It's a bargain, then.”

* * *

Krios rides back to the Overlook in something of a trance. Well, as much of a trance as he can get away with, a solitary rider on the road at dusk with just his horse for company carrying a hunk of shiny rock. The jewel, big as a damn baby's fist, burns a hole in the pocket of his britches. Questions and more questions that probably won't ever be answered play out in his brain, and he idly wonders how much time should pass before he can make up an excuse to run off to Moonstone Pond again.

By the time he's back in the Heartlands, he glances at his pocket watch and realizes it's nearly ten at night. The Yeti slips through the familiar thicket of trees, waves his half-hearted hello to Bill on guard duty, and leads them both toward the lanterns and he's pleasantly taken aback to find everybody throwing a party.

It doesn't take long to figure out why. Krios can hear the bastard yelling about something or other on the other end of camp, and his night improves drastically when he registers who it is. Krios takes a moment to unhook his saddle from the Yeti to give her a rest, balancing it on a post, before going about the glorious reunion.

Sean's already drunk, his pale face all pink with drink, making some kind of proclamation when Krios strides across camp and hollers out, “Sean Maguire, ya Mick bastard! I thought you was fuckin' dead!”

His face lights up when he spots Krios making his approach. “Well! Was wonderin' when ye'd turn up,” Sean roars right back with a sloppy grin and a laugh, leaping back down onto the grass, a bottle of whiskey in hand and one of his front teeth noticeably missing. “The fastest gun in the north! Will ye not embrace yer long lost brother?”

Everyone present looks on, amused, as Krios sprints the distance and gathers the Irish outlaw into his arms, hoisting him into the air by his waist and spinning him round and round and they both holler out their joy at seeing the other. Sean sticks his arms out like a bird and the grin plastered on his face grows wider.

Somewhere to the left of them Susan says, “Well, there goes our peace and quiet in camp.”

“Aw, I think it's sweet,” he hears Mary-Beth remark.

When Krios does set him down, he slaps the young man's cheek once, just like the Italians did for him back in the city, and he says, “My God, I thought your goose was cooked, eh?”

“Ye of little faith!” Sean cries in mock shock, clutching at his chest with the wound dealt him. “You tink some scalp hunters were gonna be the end of Sean Maguire? Guess again, lad. Here, have a drink, have a bleedin' drink wi' me! Can't have ya sober at _my_ party, now, can we?”

Sean puts him in a headlock and steers him in the direction of the whiskey crate. He pops the cork himself and all but shoves the bottle into Krios' arms, egging him on, already eager to be on similar levels of drunken debauchery. Not that Krios can ever hope to compete with how much hooch Sean's capable of putting away in one night.

The whiskey burns on its way down and immediately his bones feel less like they're made out of bone and more like they're made out of water and Sean ushers him to the nearest table and shoves him onto a barrel right next to Javier, his guitar in hand. Already the drink paints the party around him with a sheen of warmth.

They grin at each other and they toast their drinks with Uncle and Karen sitting across the table, their reddening faces glowing in the light.

“Oh, my heart is full,” says Sean, slapping a hand onto Krios' back as hard as he can. “Reunited once again with me brother in Socialism. Ye must have been bored out of yer mind, lad, with only this sour Mexican bastard for company.”

Javier eyeballs him. “Gratitude for savin' your life already run out, eh?”

“How the hell did you get out of that shit, huh?” Krios demands. On the list of things that Krios was refusing to address on a psychological level, Sean's potentially gruesome demise was at the top. However much he tries to play it off, Krios sees the naked, vulnerable relief behind Sean's facade to be back with everyone again.

Javier snorts beside him. “How do you think? We risked our asses. Me, Arthur, 'n Charles – nearly got ourselves shot up by Pinkertons getting to the little shit.”

“Hm,” Krios muses while not entirely surprised, gestures to the guitar in his arms. “Javi, can I borrow this?”

“Sure,” he says. “You not gonna play that mandolin?”

Hearing it reminds Krios he needs to dig the damned thing out from his belongings. “Can't play this song on a mandolin,” and Krios graciously takes the instrument from his friend and looks Sean right in his face. “Don't ever say I don't do nothin' for you, Sean boy. Join in when you got the words.”

And Krios begins plucking out the melody to the first Fenian tune that pops into his mind. A song taught to him by a disgruntled Irish mentor that was sick of how many “English hogshite” songs he knew.

“ _'Twas down by the glenside, I met an old woman /_

_A-pluckin' young nettles, she ne'er saw me comin' /_

_I listened a while to the song she was humming–!”_

Krios stifles a laugh to see Javier so mystified as he nails every word of the first verse of the Irish rebel tune. Sean perks right up, instantly ready, and he rasps out in unison with Krios, banging his fist down in time with the song on the round, wooden table, “ _Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men_!”

And they share a fond smile and the two of them sing, loudly and proudly as onlookers watch and listen and some roll their eyes,

“ _'Tis 50 long years since I saw the moon beaming /_

_On strong manly forms, and their eyes with hope gleaming /_

_I'll see them again, in all my sad dreamin' /_

_Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men_!”

And Karen, whose likely been drunk for hours, asks of Krios, “Where the hell did you even learn this song?”

In response, Krios throws her a cheeky wink with another swig of whiskey and he and Sean move on to the next verse. For the first time Krios feels serenity. All he ever needs is some music, some booze, and some pals. It's always such a simple formula.

“ _Some died by the glenside, some died near a stranger /_

_And wise men have told us that their cause was a failure /_

_But they loved their old Ireland and they never feared danger /_

_Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men_!”

Krios leans back in his seat and he plays along, thinks on the Irishman that taught him to survive in the west and thinks of Sean's late father, gutted by the British in his sleep like an animal. He thinks on the Irish that made life for black folks in New York a living hell, and he thinks on the Irish cops that came as refugees and made a living in the New World beating immigrant kids into the sidewalk.

“ _When I was a young girl, their marchin' and drillin' /_

_Awoke in the glen sound, awesome and thrillin' /_

_They loved poor old Ireland, and to die they were willin' /_

_Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men_!”

Singing with Sean, and they both strain to match the other's pitch, reminds Krios why he rides with this gang in the first place. He never expected these dynamics to form around him, he never expected to ever feel comfortable, especially when he remembers how against it he was when the idea was first pitched. Shacking up with a high profile outfit like the Van der Linde gang sounded like a headache. Yet he sings with his loud-mouthed, red-headed friend and it makes all the sense in the world for a moment, and they lean to and fro with the song.

“ _I passed on my way, Gods be praised that I met her /_

_Be life long or short, sure I'll never forget her /_

_We may have brave men, but we'll never have better /_

_Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men_!”

“Remind me again who taught you that tune?” Sean asks when the song finishes. “That's pure Fenian, that is.”

And Krios grins when he replies, “One of my mentors is a red Irish bastard, just like you. One day I was playing … Scarborough Fair, I think it was, and he walks over and tells me to quit the English shite. Taught me rebel songs after that.”

Sean beams. “Ya gotta point this fella out to me someday, Krios. I ought to shake his hand, seems a man after me own heart.”

“He'll turn up,” says Krios. “Man's got the trackin' skills of a bloodhound – when he wants to find me, he will.”

“You been workin', then?” Sean asks. “Seems to be a bit of open fuckin' country. Whole lotta space for mischief.”

Krios shrugs. “This 'n that. We gotta keep our noses clean 'round these parts.”

A voice behind them rings out, “I always have work for either of you, you know,” and it's Strauss that's talking to them and Krios makes no secret of the scowl that washes across his face. “Easy work for enterprising young men such as yourselves.”

The mere idea makes him laugh. And Krios angles himself around, stares Strauss right into his beady little eyes and spits into the ground. The bourbon in his stomach erodes any sense of civility he's otherwise forced to maintain around him. “Find some other stooges, you weasel.”

“Oh, for the love of God, please don't start this again,” Javier groans beside him but Krios is already far too buzzed to not be eager for a fight.

Javier pinches the bridge of his nose. Sean, always one for drama, chuckles devilishly beside him as Krios picks the fight. “Such _principle_ , Mr. Devereux,” says Strauss. “Tell me, where in _Das Kapital_ does it extol the virtues of thievery, murder, and arson for the common good? I must have missed it.”

Every day he wishes Dutch would let him hurdle this spindly old bastard over a cliff. “The same part where it says to go fuck yourself, loan shark,” he snarls back. “Ah, but you can't, can ya? You'd probably throw your back out.”

Strauss glares at him from his little perch behind his desk. “The money from those loans puts food in your ungrateful belly.”

Krios throws his arms up in a shrug. “I'd rather starve, then, shriveled fucking parasite.”

“You are little more than a common cutthroat,” Strauss seethes, prickly as a cactus from the humiliation Krios dishes out so shamelessly to everyone listening. “And you dare look down your nose at me?”

And he _sneers_ at the old Austrian when he replies, “Oh, kiss my ass, you deluded goddamn Kraut. You exploit the poor and the desperate and don't even have the fuckin' balls to do it yourself. Then again,” and Krios pauses, jokingly elbows Javier in the gut as he adds, “they probably raisins by now, eh?”

Sean, Javier, and Krios all laugh at the old loan shark's expense and he bristles so visibly before their eyes and it only eggs Krios on. That's when he hears Dutch laugh uproariously from his vantage point at his tent before he says, “Cut it out, the both of ya. Leopold, probably best not to bark up this particular tree, hm? Krios – try to play nice, son. We're _enjoying_ ourselves tonight.”

Strauss gestures furiously to his bullies. “Do you not hear how he speaks to me, Dutch?”

Dutch waves the concern away with one hand, already half-sauced himself. “Oh, that's just his New York charm, Mr. Strauss.”

“ _Charm_ ,” Javier repeats with a sarcastic scoff and Krios promptly grabs the brim of his hat to pull over his eyes.

Krios sniffs. “Loan shark started it.”

The rest of the night has its highlights, including watching Sean and Karen drunkenly dance around each other and their blisteringly obvious mutual attraction. Krios tries not to drink himself catatonic, pacing any whiskey with some water from his canteen. Drinking is a skill, after all, and he's learned from some of the best.

Once Sean and Karen are off mooning at one another in a corner, Krios spies Arthur and Charles talking with lit cigarettes at least ten paces back from the general fanfare. When they spot him walk past, Arthur offers him a cigarette and beckons him over, “Well, look who's still alive. How'd you get on, Casanova? Got yerself a dragon's hoard stashed somewhere?”

“Boys,” says Krios when he crosses over and takes that cigarette, about as shamelessly as they expect him to, “I tell ya, it was quite somethin'.”

“My Lord, the look on your face,” says Arthur. Krios lights a match from the bottom of his boot and pops the cigarette into his mouth. “What'd you do that poor woman?”

Charles chuckles. “Nothin' good. Like a cat that caught the canary.”

Krios shakes his head and exhales his first plume of smoke before he tells them, “Nah, _I_ was the damn canary,” and he pauses and tries to organize his drunken monologue before he says, “It was like … like you won't believe me when I tell you how it went down but I _swear_ it did, boys. On my life!”

Arthur chortles. “Christ, this is gonna be good.”

Charles waves it along and says, “You're too drunk to embellish this, Krios, we'll be here all night. Get to the point.”

Krios takes another drag and steadies himself on his feet and he says, “Two stiffs was already tryin' to rob her when I got there, believe it or not. Probably overheard me 'n Seamus – or maybe Seamus been runnin' his mouth, I don't know.”

“I _did_ tell you he was a clown,” Arthur feels the need to point out. “And what happened? You kill 'em?”

“No, no, just did a little show of muscle and ran 'em off, you know how it goes,” Krios perches one foot up against the tree and leans back, revisiting his day with Miss Paro and how it all started staring down the barrel of a repeating rifle. “She asked me what I was doin' there. I told her.”

Arthur blinks, tilts his head. “Told her … what?”

Krios knows how they're going to react and he lets it happen because they are doubters, the pair of them. “That I was there to, ah, scope the area out. Told her the truth of it, anyhow. She had a gun on me and the damn place was remote enough that I couldn't just pass it off as like … coincidence, you know?”

Arthur and Charles exchange a blatant look of concern for Krios' right mind but they let him continue without interrupting and he goes on to explain, “I get her to put the gun down, right? Next thing I know she invites me in for tea.”

Arthur's the one to balk before he immediately tries to accuse Krios of talking out of his ass. In fairness, he would be within his rights to. He exhales some tobacco and says to Krios, “Oh, horseshit, there's no way–!”

Without a moment's hesitation, Krios fishes a hand in his britches and whips the gemstone to brandish in their faces. Smug as ever, he lets them drink it in just as he did. “Yeah, that shut you up, huh? Ain't never seen no jewel this shiny in my life.”

“Shit,” says Charles, plucking it from Krios' hands to inspect in the moonlight. “Quite somethin' is right.”

“An uncompromising, fierce, lovely woman livin' in the middle of nowhere,” says Krios, casting his gaze up to the night sky above their heads and the stars that dot across the heavens. “Like a penny novel.”

And Arthur laughs at him and takes the sapphire from Charles to look at before he says, “If I'm not mistaken, Devereux … you sound smitten.”

“I am,” Krios replies with a sigh, batting his eyelashes at the moon above their heads as he thinks of drinking tea at her table. “Shoulda seen her, Art. What a woman.”

Arthur crosses his arms, incredulous, impressed, and still somewhat skeptical all at once. “Just how the hell did you manage to pull it off, then?”

Krios grins his famous shark-toothed grin before yanking his gemstone back into his hands. “Like Dutch said; just used a little of my New York charm.”

“You're leaving details out,” Charles says, squinting. “Why?”

Krios grimaces. Why can't he maintain an air of mystery? “Nothin' gets past you, huh?” He snuffs the cigarette beneath his boot as he replies, “Ain't polite to kiss 'n tell, Charlie.”


	6. Regards to Mr. Fuckface

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Krios learns that sometimes not only his skeletons, but other people's skeletons have a nasty habit of showing up and ruining the entire vibe he'd been cultivating.
> 
> Thank you for reading. Please stay safe out there.

Walking through Valentine feels like wading through a mile-high pile of cloven-hoof shit. So much shit that it's like a nauseating cocktail that wafts through the air, making every moment spent in its city limits one of significant personal struggle. It's a town of working girls, drunken ranch hands, lowlifes, and everyone in between. The further they push east the more prominent the truth of the alienation of these small towns is clear to him. They live in their own bubbles of dirt and pastoral bliss, content to never interact with the paternal hand of Uncle Sam again.

As for Krios, he's on a small shopping trip. Enough holes in his clothes inform him he needs needle and thread, and volunteers to bring some back for the girls – a chocolate bar for Jack, as well some cigarettes for Karen. Krios pops his head into the gun shop. He can say one thing for Valentine in that the shop owners don't refuse his business outright, as some of these small towns can be prone to.

Once done, he steps back out and lights a cigarette before starting to make his way back to where he's hitched the Yeti. More than an hour spent in this hole means she sports all sorts of mud stains and as Krios makes his way toward his horse he laments the decent washing he'll have to give her – again.

A shiver runs up his spine and Krios feels eyes on the back of his head.

O'Driscolls lurk in this town like a cancerous tumor. He's promised Hosea to keep his nose clean but it is a test of his already paper thin patience like no other. After years of the petty squabbles, stealing scores off each other, this has been a bonafied gang feud for the ages. He can identify an O'Driscoll just by sight, in most cases. And drunk Irish bastards are loud enough that it isn't exactly some kind of skillful sleuth.

All he really needs to do is pay attention to which direction the townsfolk are scowling – if it isn't at him directly – because it seems the fine people of Valentine enjoy an O'Driscoll about as much as Krios does.

Crowded, muddy streets means he has to meander at barely above a cantor once he's thrown a leg over a saddle and mounted up, lest the Yeti stomp the lights out of some clueless farmer. And as he makes his way down the street, past the more run-down of the two watering holes in Valentine, a rough voice rings out,

“You best be careful where you show your face, boy,” and it isn't an Irish brogue addressing him but it's the same, tired O'Driscoll script. Two of Colm's dead-eyed boys are staring him down from their perch in front of the saloon, leaned up against the railing. “This here town's O'Driscoll turf.”

Krios throws his head back in a snort and can't help himself when the Yeti stops and he says to the man with one eyebrow cocked, “Huh. That why I been smellin' shit? Figured it was from the livestock.”

The scowl bakes into their faces like the unforgiving sun on their sunburnt faces. The one that spoke to him before replies, with one finger jabbed at Krios, “Watch it, mongrel.”

Krios tilts his head with a crooked smile and leans on the horn of his saddle, seemingly without a care in the world. Like he's daring either of them to do something about it. “Or what, ya ugly sheep fucker? You wanna shoot me in broad daylight? That's how fuckin' stupid you O'Driscoll bastards are, right?”

The man's fingers start to twitch over the holster at his hip, slowly ambling closer, but Krios knows he won't dare. “You _really_ wanna start somethin', boy?”

And Krios angles his head to the sheriff currently watching the commotion from his own porch with no small amount of interest. “You don't wanna start nothin' with me, Mr. Fuckface. Ain't just us no more.”

“How's an uppity piece of shite city boy like you survived this long out here?” The one beside him finally demands of Krios. “This ain't New York. Ya can't hide behind coppers here. Nobody's afraid to cull a mutt.”

“Hide behind _who_?” And Krios throws his head back in a raucous, sincere laugh that disarms his harassers and confuses any onlookers listening to the extent of the conversation. “I ain't never depended on a cop for nothin' in my Godforsaken life, you brainless goddamn mick. Your concern should be for _your_ necks – not mine, I'll be fine.”

“Not if I have a say in it,” the man says between his teeth.

Krios wonders in an absent sort of way if it's concerning that these very real threats never seem to faze him. Perhaps he's accustomed to an unhealthy degree. He rolls his shoulders, spits into the ground, and replies simply, “I shat out worse than you after breakfast this mornin', friend.”

“That mouth'll see you in trouble 'fore this day is done, boy,” says the O'Driscoll without a brogue, and he can see in the man's eye how desperate he is to shoot Krios right then and there, can see in the way his hand twitches. Oh, but that sheriff hasn't taken his eyes off of them yet.

For a moment, Krios considers it. Considers shooting these two men right before the sheriff of Valentine, risk expediting his hanging by the state by _many_ months. He doesn't, though. It's a hollow challenge made by sad, deluded men that isn't worth getting into trouble for.

So Krios swallows that budding tilt toward violence in the pit of his throat and gestures the Yeti to walk on, deciding to leave his two new friends with parting words as he says, “Nice chat, fellas. Have fun meetin' your untimely demise choking on Colm's dick, huh?”

With that, he gallops down the road, satisfied with his diplomatic skills as he readjusts the hat on his hat. The men behind him holler out their nasty threats and their insults and for Krios it's water off of a duck's back. If he had a nickel for every one-eyed hayseed with a bone to pick, he would be a very rich man. Richer than Cornwall, richer than Croesus, off of the murderous vitriol of men.

The hairs on his skin stand on end. The horse fusses. And he rides like that out of town in the direction of the Outlook, and its only barely past limits of the damn town that his suspicions are confirmed. Another pair of them – sour-faced, unwashed, O'Driscoll in the tooth – block his intended path. Not the men from before, but O'Driscolls just the same. It's like a traveling circus cursed to follow him.

The one in the center is watching him. There's a hate burning behind his eyes, ringed with exhaustion, that gives him pause. Something about him strikes Krios, though he isn't initially sure why before the man jabs a finger at him and he says, “It's this one.”

“Y'sure, Mal?” the one beside him asks.

“D'you remember me?” he demands to Krios. When Krios doesn't answer right away he says, louder, “I asked if ye remember me, bastard.”

One hand flies to the holster at his hip as he takes in the situation. He pushes his shoulders into a shrug as he says, “I seen so many paddies these days, I lose track.”

The sound that comes out of the man in response sounds like a laugh but it only seems to make him angrier, gesturing to Krios on his horse. “It's him, alright. The sniper on the hill … one of Dutch's fuckin' pet darkies, by the look of it.”

That's when it dawns on him. Colter, that day with Javier. The crack of gunfire bouncing off of the trees. The man's blood spilled like a wine stain on the snow that leaked from the hole in his head. The other one swore they would see each other again and Krios didn't give it a second thought the moment he was out of range.

If Krios doesn't move things will get worse fast but he can't help but laugh at the sheer tenacity. “My God. So ya found me, huh, Irish?”

They draw on each other at almost the same moment. The friend he brought draws his gun and Krios whips his .38 out until they're deadlocked, muscles clenched for any sudden movements. His thighs dig into his anxious horse.

“Think it's fuckin' funny, do ya, ya black bastard?” says the Irishman with the dead cousin. “Shot Rob down in cold blood. Didn't even look him in the eye!”

“What's it matter?” Krios demands, then. “Was I supposed to challenge him to a duel? You know how this goes, ya deluded fuckin' mick. You're just mad we found you first. That camp in Ambarino was embarrassin' enough for your lot, and now you come crawlin' to me with a death wish?”

A scowl paints onto the man's face. “You're an arrogant son-of-a-bitch, aren't ya? Little … half-breed from nowhere. No other way ya could've killed my kin if not for sneakin' up like the coward y'are.”

Krios snorts before he says, “And you're a penniless rat from some slum in Ireland. We're all lowlife bastards shootin' each other 'cause our bosses told us to, pal. You wanna try and square this vendetta with me? That's your choice,” and he cracks a muscle in his neck before he finally adds, “but I'll shoot you if you try.”

“You're outnumbered, boy,” the other O'Driscoll finally says.

He sniffs. “I got two guns.”

Once glance behind him is enough to make him see that two guns might not be the ticket out. Krios counts three oncoming riders. Two faces he recognizes from just ten minutes earlier, painted with perhaps the smuggest expressions he's yet seen. Planned distraction? In an instant he knows he doesn't have time to speculate. Without another thought, he shoots once, twice, three times at their feet to make the two men jump and whips the reins when the moment shows itself.

“We gotta go, gorgeous,” and the Yeti rears with a resounding cry before bolting straight down the dirt path, fast enough that they're only able to manage shooting at him once. The bullet stings as it whizzes past his cheek, leaving a tiny stream of blood in its wake. That posse of angry O'Driscolls would be on top of him fast, and he rides hard with that in mind. Krios points his horse in the opposite direction of camp, toward Cumberland Falls and hopefully toward the cover of some trees.

He listens to the racing of the Yeti's heart as they fly together.

It would be an exhilarating shot of adrenaline to his veins if not for the threat of death and dismemberment. He rides along the Dakota River west down the road, grips the reins as hard as he can with one hand as he fishes in his saddlebags for the stick of dynamite he keeps for rainy days. He's only barely got enough of a head start that he's able to toss it onto the road and skid to a stop at a safe distance.

Krios cocks the hammer of his revolver and prays to any god listening that his aim is right. The shouting begins to get closer, he can hear the sound of hooves pounding into the earth, and he takes a deep, sustained breath and waits until they're close enough.

He lets the breath go and shoots the moment his lungs are empty. The dynamite erupts in a cascading _boom_ that sends dirt, rocks, debris, and smoke flying every which direction and he flinches on instinct. His ears ring as he scans the horizon for higher ground. O'Driscolls scream and the distinct sound of frantic horses command the next 10 seconds – the Yeti nearly bucks him off right then and there, but he manages to get her under control and bolt for higher ground before the smoke clears.

There's a path that curves up into the trees and he takes full advantage of the confusion caused by the explosion. A sound like that would attract attention. Once secure in higher ground, he grabs his sighted rifle strapped onto his horse, a couple boxes of ammo, and swings a leg off of her saddle and grabs her by the jaw rope as he hits the ground.

Krios exhales sharp through his nose before says to her, slapping the back of her thigh, “You gotta hide, baby girl. Couldn't bear to see one of these bastards get his hands on you. Get!”

For better or worse, she does. The Yeti takes off like the shining bullet she is into the relative safety of the the forest and he throws his rifle over his shoulder to survey over the cliffside. It's a slow and deliberate sort of thing, as his perch overlooks the now smoldering hole in the ground. Two bodies lay half-charred, one was thrown by his horse at the last minute and smashed his brains against a boulder, and three newly arrived men stand around and mutter to themselves at the display of bodies.

Krios wastes no time and peers through the scope of his rifle once he's got a decent position. Nostrils flared, he only has a moment to mull over which one to shoot first before it's a moot point. Krios is forcibly dragged to his feet with one arm round his throat and yanked backward, his boots dragging against the grass, thrown up against a tree about as hard as possible before the sharpened edge of a hunting knife pushes up against his throat.

Krios looks into the eyes of the man whose cousin he shot on that mountain and it's that same hate, that same fire of unfettered vitriol that stares back at him. The only difference now is that it's far, far closer.

“Tell me somethin', boy,” the man asks. “When did ye lose yer soul?”

“You some kinda priest?” Krios barks, struggles against the sharpened edge at his jugular and stares the man down. “Go on, sheep fucker. Do it if ya got the balls.”

“Revenge is mine in the eyes of God,” the O'Driscoll says, his free arm balanced against the tree. “I should slit your throat and be done with it, shouldn't I? Save us both the grief. But me, and some of these other boys? We ain't attended a proper lynching in a fortnight.”

A cold shiver rushes down his spine but he'll be damned if shows even an ounce of fear. “Tch. And you called me the coward.”

The knife presses harder into Krios' skin when the man replies, “I thought about it, y'see. You're right. It's just the feud between our gangs – you've got no quarrel with me. You're just the lowlife that killed 'im, and that can't go unanswered, can it?”

“So kill me yourself,” says Krios through his teeth. “If it's so fuckin' important.”

The man brings himself closer and his breath smells of brandy and a cheap cigar. “How's it feel knowin' you're gonna die for a useless son-of-a-bitch like Dutch van der Linde? All that talk of principle, all that sally'ing about like some kind of savage savior, and here ye are. Just another black bastard about to find his death at the end of a rope.”

Perhaps the more patient approach is waiting for an opening when there isn't a knife to his throat. Any sense of patience snaps like driftwood. About as hard as he can without accidentally getting his throat split open, he lands a kick just between the man's legs and he goes down like a poorly built stack of dominoes. Krios kicks the knife out of the O'Driscoll's hand. He doesn't have long before any of the other O'Driscolls patrolling the area catch him, to say nothing of what this man might have told his comrades before separating from the rest of their group.

“You shoulda slit my throat,” says he, and Krios is in a visceral, guttural sort of rage as he kicks the man again, once hard enough to break one of his ribs, and again when he lands another stomp to the O'Driscoll's crotch and watches him writhe and cry out with a glint of glee in his eye. Krios knows time isn't on his side but he doesn't control what he does so much as act as witness to his own behavior.

Krios leans over the beaten O'Driscoll and spits in his face.

He grabs the rifle that'd fallen to the ground in the scuffle, but he figures a revolver is more suited to the task. The .38 slips out of its holster. The hammer clicks when its cocked. Other than sputtering, unintelligible curses, and trying to catch his breath, the man says nothing. And Krios says, “You coulda killed me fast and had your vendetta. But you Irish bastards always gotta run your mouths, huh?”

“The boys'll be here in a matter of minutes. You ain't got the time to make a run for it.”

Krios grins and he says, “I know. I got a surprise for 'em.”

And Krios shoots the O'Driscoll in his right thigh, above his femoral artery, and the O'Driscoll screams with the abject, raw agony. The corner of Krips' lip turns up in a satisfied scowl when the man roars out, “ _Fuck_!”

“That's your femoral artery I just shot. Means you'll be bleedin' out soon,” Krios says as he holsters his weapon. He reckons the gunshot will have cut his time short. Before he turns on his heel, he says to the O'Driscoll bleeding into the grass, “You give my regards to that cousin of yours when ya get to Hades, yeah?”

Beads of sweat cling to his pallid face. “You'll burn either way, you twisted little darky shite,” and the color's already beginning to wash from his face as the shock of blood loss sets in. “One way or the other! Bastards like you are never long for this world, you mark my words!”

“You're dying for that deluded Colm O'Driscoll,” Krios calls back with a resounding laugh as he starts to make his escape. “I'll take hellfire over that.”

The sound of oncoming horses alerts him and he sprints into the cover of the trees, away from the main road. The posse of O'Driscolls – he counts six in total – that follow are quick enough that they reach their comrade a mere minute after Krios slips away into the shadows of the trees. He isn't home free until he finds the Yeti, and tries desperately to search the ground for her tracks. A whistle would be the end of him.

The man he shot manages to point a finger in his direction of escape, though he can't make out what he tells them from his vantage point. All Krios knows is that he needs to move. So, hunched over as his heart hammers against his rib cage, he shuffles through the thicket.

“There! There he is!”

 _Shit_. Krios doesn't even look back to see who it is that's spotted him, he only runs deeper into the trees. Horses can't follow as easy, it's better cover from bullets, and he can't think of anything else. So he runs. Runs so goddamn fast he wonders if it'll burn a hole into the sole of his boots. The O'Driscolls behind him shoot their guns into the air and whoop and holler as they pursue him.

Every solitary thought is wiped clean. All he can think of is putting one foot in front of the other as stray bullets whiz past his ears and ricochet off of the trunks of the trees, knock branches from their perches, sends birds and wild life scattering. Adrenaline pumps white hot into his veins as he sprints and bobs through foliage and tries not to accidentally clothesline himself.

There's a clearing at the end and he sees a rider. Krios shrugs his rifle from his shoulders and prepares to shoot himself some room before he gets closer and realizes who it is, in wait with the Yeti, and skids to a halt in a moment of relief and sheer shock.

Krios has never been more relieved to see the face of his savior. Dusk approaches and the shadows frame Arthur's face but he would recognize him anywhere. As he tries to catch his breath he asks, “How … the hell did you–?”

“Ain't hard to follow all that noise you been makin', Krios,” Arthur interjects with sharp urgency, keeps his eyes on the oncoming hoard of O'Driscolls. “C'mon, we gotta move.”

And he does without a moment's hesitation, rushing over to the Yeti and throwing himself up onto her saddle. They ride hard, the Yeti and Jolene, through the dirt roads of West Elizabeth. Krios, now feeling significantly safer than he did five minutes ago, feels his blood heat up when the hoard start to make themselves known in the chase after them.

Krios shrugs out of his repeating rifle and tries to keep his aim steady on the back of his saddle. One, steady breath and he shoots an O'Driscoll in the jugular, watches him crumple and hang off of his horse. And then another, and another, and another, and it's all done in a blinding sort of pace that he barely recognizes as his own. The last one, he shoots in the jaw. Moments like these make him want to shake the hand of the inventor of a repeating rifle.

The other pursuers are mighty disenchanted after that, breaking off to ride in the opposite direction. Krios notices the one closest to him fleeing and shoots him in the arm.

“ _Fuck_ ,” and Krios lets the weight of an untimely demise lift from his shoulders. Just for a moment, he's safe again. Their horses slow to a more gentle cantor and Krios pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers as he attempts to collect himself.

“You alright?” There's a concern present in his voice and Krios can't fault it. He's positive that he looks like a disaster. “What the hell happened?”

Krios heaves a sigh before he replies, “Killed some … paddy bastard's cousin when we were up in Colter. Son-of-a-bitch jumped me over a vendetta.”

Arthur snorts. “It's all one big goddamn vendetta.”

He exhales another cloud of stress, “He wanted to lynch me.”

And Arthur's expression darkens when he hears that, the corner of his lip curling up with the visible wave of disgust that washes over him when he asks Krios, “This O'Driscoll. He still breathing?”

Krios rolls his shoulders back, thinks on the man he left to bleed out into the open air from the hole in his thigh. “No.”

Arthur nods once, spits into the ground before he says, “Good.”

“Arthur, ah …” Icy rage replaces itself with uneasy relief. It's a clumsy transition that makes a well-spoken street urchin trip over himself. Krios stumbles on the words for a moment as they bubble to his throat before he relents and says, “I … thank you. It wouldn't've … I don't know how I would've gotten out of that without you.”

Arthur is clumsy with the gratitude as well, always one to prefer the thankless grunt work Dutch dishes out to him. This time, though, he doesn't shrug it off. The corner of Arthur's mouth turns up in the ghost of a smile before he replies, “Don't sweat that, now. Plenty of opportunity to get me back. You was just lucky I found that horse of yours all by her lonesome … I just followed the gunshots after that.”

“What were you doin' around here?”

Arthur grunts and he says, “Yours wasn't the only ass I was savin'. Dutch sent me to Strawberry, to make sure that fool Micah wasn't hanged by the law.”

Krios grimaces at the mention of the name. There's been a notable peace in camp since that oily, hateful little man was thrown in the clink and nearly got Lenny killed for the trouble, and Krios is loathe to lose it. “Please tell me ya took too long and they already hung him.”

Arthur lets out a raspy laugh, shakes his head, “Sadly, no. That crazy bastard is free, alright. Probably won't show his face in camp for a week or so, thank the Lord. I had to help him shoot most of the goddamn town to get him out.”

So much for keeping a low profile in West Elizabeth. “You _what_?”

“It weren't my idea,” Arthur cries and exhales sharp. “Somethin' about … things gettin' hot turns that fool straight to a _violent_ kinda lunacy. Side tracked us just to get those God forsaken pistols of his back. Must've killed half the goddamn law in that town. As well as any other misguided bastard that tried to stop us. Christ, Krios … an ordeal don't even begin to describe it.”

Krios blinks as Arthur paints the vivid, bloody image. He whistles low before he asks the real question of, “Why the hell does Dutch keep that maniac around? Seems every step he takes, he fucks us somehow.”

“I truly got no goddamn clue,” and it's Arthur's turn to heave a lumbering sigh. “Dutch says he sees somethin' in him, but I couldn't tell you what it is.”

To Krios it's a no-brainer. And Krios says, “Dutch sees a lizard with a gun, Art. That's what he fuckin' sees. He can lie to himself, and to you, and to the rest of us about what he thinks he sees in the man – but the bottom line? Micah's a cold bastard that knows how to shoot a gun, is blessed with _complete_ moral decay, and he's got nothin' else to live for. I never seen a more hollow son-of-a-bitch in my life, and that's exactly what Dutch wants.”

Arthur cocks an eyebrow as he asks, “So you been payin' attention, huh?”

“I know he's like your father,” says Krios, “but he ain't as enigmatic and mysterious in his ways as he thinks he is.”

And that makes Arthur laugh, despite his visible role of the lieutenant of this entire outfit. Krios used to think Arthur would do anything, anything at all for Dutch but since Blackwater he's seen change in the way that Arthur watches his mentor. Sees him get even closer to Hosea as a result. Dynamics of power in this outfit shift with the phases of the moon these days, and Blackwater was only the beginning.

“I'm inclined to agree,” says Arthur as he shifts his gaze to the approach of dusk, clicks his teeth to give Jolene her bearings. “We'll get ya back to camp, clean ya up, and get a stiff whiskey. I got a bottle we can share stashed somewhere.”

Krios watches him, follows after him, and can't stop himself when he asks, “Why you bein' nice to me?”

“Ah, I may give you shit for that big mouth,” and Arthur turns his head to look him in the eye with a glint in his eye when he says, “but underneath all that city smog is a good head on your shoulders. I sleep easier knowin' you ride with us.”

Whether or not he's saying this to make Krios feel better after a visible brush with a nasty death, or just saying it to say it, is anyone's guess. Arthur's praise and apparent admiration, so sincere in its execution, hits him like a sock to the jaw and he blinks, speechless for a moment.

“I didn't even think you liked me,” is all he manages as a reply.

And Arthur chortles to himself as they ride along the dirt road and he says, “I just got an unfortunate way of expressin' myself. I _used_ to think you was some … arrogant, foul-mouthed, pretty boy city slickin' bastard rushin' himself into an early grave, but I was wrong. I want you to know that.”

In his anxiety, Krios decides to completely gloss over it. Dark, prominent brows waggle up and down when he asks, “You think I'm pretty, Morgan?”

“Oh, for the love of God,” Arthur groans as he demands, “Is _that_ what you got from what I just said?”

“Ah, you not so bad yaself for a grimy ol' white boy,” says Krios as he whips the reins once to pick up the Yeti's speed, grinning at the ease with which he can tease Arthur. A cheeky wink is thrown Arthur's way. “C'mon, let's get back. I'm so hungry I could die.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, keeps pace. “I see you feelin' better … didn't take long.”


	7. Get a Clue, Bud

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Krios, Arthur, and Charles debate on the waxing and waning value of human life. Shenanigans ensue. 
> 
> Let me know what you guys think thus far. As always, thanks for reading and I hope y'all are staying safe as we try to navigate this biblical-ass plague that's been knocking on our doors for the past couple of months.

Krios jolts awake that morning short of breath. The nightmare fades from his body's memory but he can still see it in his mind's eye all the same, beady eyes staring at him from a void that seems to creep closer and closer no matter how far he runs. A scattered number of people are awake, just past the ass crack of dawn, and Krios pulls himself together enough to stick his head in a bucket of cold water. He hopes the shock to his system stops his heart from pounding out of its cage.

In something of a trance, he moves to check on the Yeti. He passes Charles and Arthur with supplies sitting around their feet, and Charles is hunched over on a box sharpening a hunting knife to a fine point. They chatter in low voices.

Charles looks up from his work as Krios passes him by, “Krios. C'mere.”

The yawn rips out from him as he turns back to Charles, rubbing at his eyes as he says, “Good mornin' to you too, boys.”

“Mornin', wonder boy,” says Arthur.

“I'm off to hunt bison today,” says Charles. “Come with us.”

In his mind's eye he sees Wyoming, and he's mounted on a freckled beast watching a sea of bison roam past. Krios pauses in the real world, shifts the weight beneath his feet as he replies, “Bison … I ain't never hunted one of them before.”

Charles stands to his feet, angles his head in the direction of the mounts. “I can show you proper, then. The both of you.”

For better or worse it would take his mind off of his mind, and how it loves to race like the Yeti after a shot of cocaine. So he agrees, gathers himself and his guns and some food to tide him over for however long this would take. The plains is their destination, as Charles mentions he saw a herd of bison wandering round not too long ago.

There's an excitement there, clear in Charles' eye that's rare in such a dour and reserved man. It's an enchanting sight, glinting back at him from behind those long black lashes. So they mount up, and Krios realizes fast why that would be.

Charles speaks of his mother for the first time as they ride. Recounts to the both of them that her tribe would move with bison, that their lives were knit together like a quilt. In his low, smooth, soothing voice he talks about how they would use every part of the animal for all manner of task, to make sure nothing ever went to waste. Tools, clothes, food, shelter – all of it.

There's an inherent sadness that Krios hears whenever Charles talks about his mother's tribe. Says things like “us” and “we” but Krios knows how complicated that subject is for him, how badly that wound has scarred after spending nearly his entire adolescence and adult life alone. His people moved with the bison, he says, as they ride from the thicket of forest out past the train tracks and toward the open plains. The rocks tower above their heads in the early morning.

Arthur being Arthur decides to remark, “I don't remember much of my childhood, but I think my people … well, we pretty much moved with the whiskey.”

Krios _snorts_ and Charles throws his head back in a hearty laugh as he says, “Well, my father did that, too.”

They go back and forth until they finally reach the herd, and Charles dishes out basic instruction to the both of them. He and Krios would keep them ringed in, and Arthur would pick a straggler off. In the distance he does see them, foreboding and magnificent as ever, moving as cohesive as a flock of birds. There's no beast of the plains that commands an instinctual sort of respect like a bison. One too many close calls out west with Cedric proved that definitively.

Charles emphasizes that they should only kill one, and it's clear how important that distinction is to him. Krios hopes that Arthur hears that, too.

They ride fast. Any cobwebs left over from the nightmare are swiftly chased away and replaced with new, pragmatic anxieties having to do with not wanting to get trampled. The Yeti is difficult, as always, to keep at a reasonable speed but it's a beautiful day and the wind whips alongside their horses and in his hands he catches a moment's freedom. Krios watches Charles, watches how he tries to keep them boxed in and attempts to do the same – though herding has never been a strength of his.

It isn't long before Arthur shoots one down, brutally efficient as ever with that rifle, and Charles bids him to skin and butcher it right there. All of it brings Krios back to Cedric, to Alf, to the west.

Arthur goes about his laborious task and the air is filled with the squelching sound of a sharpened knife cutting into fresh, hulking meat.

“Now, have I finally lost my mind, or has city boy been silent this entire time?” Arthur muses aloud as he goes about his business, and it makes Charles chuckle and Krios roll his eyes. “You feelin' alright over there, Mr. Devereux?”

The teasing feels like pity. Krios sucks his teeth and he says, “I'm peachy, thanks.”

“You did good,” Charles tell him, smoothing his hands through his hair before taking a moment to stare at something on the horizon. Krios follows his eyes and sees him focusing on scavengers in the distance, though they're too far away to decipher what. Something about it catches Charles' attention, and when Arthur is able to get as much as he can from the bison in the short amount of time they have in the open, Charles says he wants to see something for himself.

It's only when they ride over to investigate that Krios freezes on the Yeti when they come upon the bodies. Three bison, shot and left to die are being feasted on by crows and vultures. Nothing's been taken off of them, they weren't hunted for survival or for their pelts. The birds scatter upon their approach and Krios sees Charles' anger spike in almost an instant.

“No,” he says and surveys the scene and they're assaulted with the smell of flesh that's been baking in the open sun. “Bison … shot and left for dead, it looks like.”

Arthur balks. “Why would someone do that?”

Krios speaks without thinking, certain as he is with the answer that they want, “Charlie. Buffalo hunters did this.”

Charles looks at him, then. The look in his eye is unmistakable, the fire burning there almost blinding. “What?”

“You seem sure,” says Arthur, brows furrowing together.

“That's 'cause I am,” Krios replies as he leans forward on his saddle. It's always so fucking gruesome. It always makes his blood boil to see the handiwork of some of the worst of what men are capable of. “Buffalo hunters did this, alright. There's tracks. You wanna do somethin' about it?”

Charles seethes in place, finally nodding once before willing his horse into motion. “Yes. The tracks lead this way.”

As they ride Arthur feels a need to ask, “How you know it weren't an animal that did this, Krios?”

“Use ya big cowboy brains, Arthur,” says Krios. “They were shot and left for dead.”

“I just don't know why anyone would just leave them here to rot like that,” says Charles.

Why indeed. Krios heaves a sigh and he replies, “They're any hick with a gun and a grudge hired by the state, or railroads, or oil companies. Vile fucking sons-of-bitches. They're paid to kill as many buffalo as they can.”

“Why?” Arthur asks.

Krios stares at him dead on, spits into the ground as they keep following the tracks. “They'll tell you it's for food or for pelts but the real reason is that Uncle Sam wanted to starve out the Natives that made a life around bison, and force 'em onto those goddamn reservations.”

They spy another bison corpse on a hill a couple ways past the road, and the kill is fresher. The same method, shot and left to rot away in the sun until it was just bones. If there was any doubt that it's buffalo hunters, it dissipates. Krios hates being right in this situation because Charles' face grows more clouded with anger as each moment passes them by.

“There's a camp there,” says Arthur, nodding his head in the direction of the careless remnants of the bastards in question – cans of old chewing tobacco, makeshift clotheslines, abandoned linens. Arthur dismounts and starts walking to give it an eyeball. “I'm going to take a look.”

Charles stares at Krios, then, as Arthur investigates. “How do you know all this?”

Krios clears his throat, adjusts the hat on his head as he explains to his friend, “When I was out west with my old mentors, I used to hunt 'em.”

“Bison?” Charles demands.

Krios laughs and it's probably a more jagged sound than he realizes as the memories replay in his mind. “No, Charlie. I hunted the bastards that hunted them.”

It surprises him, his eyes growing wider. “You … hunted the buffalo hunters?”

In any other situation Krios knows this would be an exceedingly morbid thing to admit, but when it came to buffalo hunters he had no such concerns with any morality. And Krios nods, stretches his arms in the air. “You could say one of my mentors had a funny sense of justice. Formed himself a posse.”

Arthur returns with his findings but stops to comment on the fun detail of Krios' past before joining the outfit. “Did I just hear you say you used to hunt men for sport, wonder boy?”

“Buffalo hunter ain't got no humanity, Arty,” says Krios with the sort of confidence that borders on unsettling. “They're fuckin' butchers – hired by the murderers that run this country. Me 'n Cedric used to chase them down for days in between bounties out west. Best goddamn work I ever did.”

“Smoke to the north,” Charles tells them, cutting the conversation short as he points it out. Lo and behold, there it is, creeping up into the clear blue sky. Likely a campsite. They collectively agree to go check it out.

Riding toward the smoke stalk, Krios can see the rage starting to spark off of Charles. He bristles more and more with each passing moment and Krios can't even attempt to blame him for it.

Charles seethes with vitriol in his voice, “Bastards. Just killing for fun.”

“You think we can talk?” Arthur asks and in any other situation it would be a decent argument, but not in this one. It only shows how little Arthur's bubble of influence stretches out.

At this point Krios is _desperate_ for Arthur to read the room, to see the indignation and the gross, _insulting_ amount of injustice for what it is. He knows the man's capable. “It's not the same, Art. Open your fuckin' eyes, huh?”

“I don't kill for fun,” Charles snaps back as a reply. “I kill when I need to.”

They ride past more bison left for dead and Krios is all too familiar with the look on Charles' face. He whips Taima's reins and speeds off, they spot the camp a few clicks north and Krios watches, has a rough idea of how this will play out but cedes any decisions to Charles.

They get to the camp. The three of them dismount. Krios immediately puts a hand to Arthur's chest to keep him back and let Charles handle what all is about to happen. He has a sneaking suspicion but doesn't voice it, only motions for Arthur to shut up. To the surprise of no one, they find two men with bloodied weapons camped beside a rockface. Charles marches up to them and Krios makes a point of easing his revolver out of its place at his hip in the background, ignores the look of alarm from Arthur when he sees.

“Did you fools shot those bison?” Charles demands.

One of the men, bleary-eyed in the face and weathered from travel sizes him up instantly. “What's _your_ problem?”

Charles enunciates this time. Christ, but he can turn on the intimidation when he wants to. “I _said_ – did you fools shoot those bison?”

“Calm down, you black or red bastard, whatever the fuck you are,” says the other buffalo hunter, and the both of them stand to their feet as the situation escalates.

“ _Did you shoot them_?” Charles cries, then.

In that moment Krios is astounded by the arrogance of the hunter that says, “Yeah, we did. We shot them bison and we will shoot you, too, if you don't get.”

The other demands to know, “What business is it of yours what we–!?”

It happens so fast it's like a blur but in the span of a single second, Charles shoots one of them down with that sawed off shotgun he always keeps on him and the man goes _flying_ backward in a grotesque splattering of blood and guts. Arthur jumps in shock and swears under his breath, Krios flinches but is otherwise completely unfazed.

“Yep,” Krios says to himself with a knowing sigh.

“It's that business of mine!” Charles hollers at the one still alive, teeth clenched and every muscle in his body locked down with the white hot rage of it all.

The survivor falls over and hunches in abject terror, one trembling hand gestured in surrender as he cries, “Good God, you're crazy!” His voice shakes, then. Shakes like a wet kitten as he says, “Look … I got a family … a _family_. Don't shoot me.”

Arthur finally decides to be useful: interjects and steps up, says, “Stand back, Charles. I'll get you some answers.”

Arthur beats the hell out of this man and it would be a brutal sight, listening to the sound of knuckles meeting cheekbones, if not for Krios' inherent bias against his profession. He watches him punch the answers out of the hapless fool, answers Krios had from the beginning, as he explains they were paid to make it look like Natives were the ones that killed the bison.

“Just kill him, Arthur,” says Charles.

And Arthur hesitates in the face of the man begging and crying about his family, relents and decides to let him go, tells him to run away and warn any friends of what happens to poachers. Krios seethes, Charles seethes beside him and tries to demand of Arthur why he let him go and they bicker like that for a moment. Krios ignores it, feels the weight of his .38 in his hand growing heavier.

It's an easy decision to make. The man turns to run, to run and denounce this entire thing as the madness of savages no doubt, and Krios cocks the hammer of his pistol and cries out, “Hey! Buffalo hunter!”

The man stops and turns round, perhaps on instinct more than anything else, and Krios shoots him between the eyes clean and easy and with an efficiency that gives Arthur another jolt to his veins. The body crumples to the ground and Krios holsters his weapon, the corner of his lip curling up with the abject disgust of the entire situation.

“What the _hell_ is wrong with you?” Arthur cries.

Too many buffalo hunters have done and said evil to him and the ones he loved. The sort of evil that follows you like a stench. Too many of them are still breathing. He shifts his gaze between these two men and spits into the earth. He _dares_ Arthur to challenge him again.

There's a shamelessness in his tone that he's positive Arthur hears loud and clear as he sticks his arm out in indignation, “None of this affects you. You got no clue of the kinda death scum like that is responsible for, do you?” and Krios takes the moment to cross the distance between him and Arthur, sticks his arms out in indignation right in his face as he tells him to, “Open your eyes and see this country for what it is for once in your fuckin' life before you _ever_ try to speak to me like that again. Get a _goddamn_ clue, Arthur.”

Arthur's nostrils flare and he hesitates with a reply as he opens and closes his mouth, wilting under the glare of Krios' snarling derision before he turns on his heel again. Krios shifts past Charles on the way back to his horse, puts a hand to his shoulder and squeezes. The only one in this situation whose opinion matters is Charles, and that momentarily sated, exhausting rage that Krios understands to the marrow of his bones.

“Fuck 'em all, Charlie,” he tells him, and Charles nods without a word.

Charles and Krios move to mount up and Arthur opts to stay behind and loot the camp for anything useful. An arrangement that's fine with Krios, already beyond irritated at the mere _idea_ of being judged by a man like Arthur for even the fraction of a moment.

When they put some distance between themselves and the camp and that entire ugly mess, Krios asks Charles, “You okay?”

“No,” says Charles, exhaling a cloud of pent up stress. “Thank you … for handling that.”

Krios smooths an idle hand over his horse as they ride. “Arthur's smarter than most but he's really got no fuckin' clue.”

“You certainly gave him one.”

There's a place inside of his brain that he went to as soon as he saw the first dead bison. Perhaps Arthur lacks the same context, but he's never been one to be patient for the ignorance of Americans that don't suffer direct at the hands of Uncle Sam every day. “You gonna tell me I shoulda been nicer to him?”

“No,” he replies. “He'll get over it … probably be sensitive for a day or two, though.”

“Let him be sensitive,” Krios snaps. “He's my friend, I owe him a lot, but when it comes to _this_? Nah. I ain't holdin' his fuckin' hand. I worked too hard out west to fight those bastards for that fucking hick to pick _today_ to remember he has a soul.”

Charles' anger still prickles on the surface of his skin like porcupine needles but it makes him scoff with the beginnings of a laugh. “He's not so bad … just a fool sometimes. Saved your life, didn't he?”

The invitation to hunt this morning makes more sense when he hears that, as Krios is sure he annoys Charles more than the man lets on, and he chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment. Ah, to be pitied by comrades-at-arms. Especially by the only one that intimidates him. “Yous bastards gossip like fish wives, you know that?”

Charles ignores his attempt to deflect. “Sounded like a close call.”

What could he say? That his goose almost got cooked? “Our entire lives are a close call, Charlie,” says Krios. “Hell … I told you I'd bring you an O'Driscoll scalp that day in Colter, didn't I?”

“And you nearly died for it,” he replies. “A man with nothing to lose can have a long memory, Krios. Seems you got that reminder yesterday.”

“Good thing he ain't fuckin' breathing no more, then.”

Charles sighs and he says, “All I'm saying is to be careful of the enemies you make when you lose your temper. We don't need you shot full of holes with so much above our heads.”

Krios shrugs, “Ain't I always?”

One eyebrow raises and Charles' face says it all. “You really want me to answer that?”


End file.
